Atonement
by Sybl Angelkat
Summary: What if Claude Frollo had stepped in and admitted that he tried to kill Phoebus? Started as one-shot and evolved. Claude in pain warning.
1. Chapter 1

What if Claude Frollo had stepped in and admitted that he tried to kill Phoebus? A one-shot for now, but could become more if reviewers respond favorably. I purposely did not pick a specific version of Claude Frollo so that each person could imagine their favorite one.

The whole courtroom suddenly stood silent. The idea of sending Esmeralda to the torturer was too much for his conscience. Not wanting to hear her cries of pain on top of everything, Archdeacon Claude Frollo had cried out in protest and stepped forward.

"Dom Claude Frollo? You have an alibi for this woman who has spoken blasphemy against you?"

The shocked judge stared at him as he ran to Esmeralda's side.

"It's true," he whispered.

Esmeralda stared at him, stunned.

"She did not stab the Captain," Claude choked out, "I did it. I didn't kill him, but I meant to. He was going to take her innocence and he's a married man!"

"You…" Esmeralda hissed, voice laden with anger and disgust.

"I beg of you, release her! She has done nothing wrong! Nothing!"

Claude's voice was high-pitched and desperate.

"Very well…" the judge said, "then we shall hang her for witchcraft."

"There was none involved," he said, growing bolder, "I did it out of my own free will…jealousy perhaps, but I was perfectly aware of my actions. I'm only sorry I didn't miss."

"Oh, my God…" someone in the background muttered.

The others huddled together, whispering.

"We can't hang the archdeacon, can we?"

"No…the wrath of the Lord would be upon us…"

While they debated, Claude turned back to Esmeralda. Conflicting emotions flooded her face. He knelt at her feet, drawing back his hood. Such petty disguises and pretenses were unneeded.

"I could not see you hang," he pleaded, "please forgive me of the trouble I've caused…I only want you to know how much I love you…I could not bear to see you harmed at someone else's hands."

Esmeralda stared down at him. His fate hung in the balance of the judge's hands now.

"Is this what you call love? This murdering, raping monstrosity that has possessed you? You know nothing of love, archdeacon. Of that, I am certain!"

He clung to her skirts like a frightened child.

"If you cannot love me and you cannot forgive me, at least try," he begged, "one day…please try and find it in your heart…whatever becomes of me then, I will gladly bear that cross. I don't deserve you and I know that now."

Her expression softened just the slightest bit.

"Let the girl go," the judge ordered, and Esmeralda fled from the chair. Claude remained prostrate on the floor.

"Dom Claude Frollo, stand!" the judge ordered. Trembling, Claude obeyed.

"You are found guilty of attempted murder. I sentence you to be publicly whipped and exiled from the cathedral for three months. If, by some miracle, you can straighten yourself up, you may go before the bishop and plead your case. Be warned that you may never return. Are you still willing to take the blame?"

Claude bowed his head.

"Yes, your Honor."

"Bailiff, take him away! See that he gets the full forty!"

"Yes, sir," the bailiff said. The guards dragged the archdeacon from the room. When his eyes locked with Esmeralda's, they were filled with tears.

It was terrible. It was worse than terrible. Esmeralda wanted to be anywhere in the world but this place. But try as she might, she could not make herself run away and was drawn into the crowd instead. She found herself pushed to the very front. Beside her stood Pierre, the poet, and Clopin, the gypsy king. Both of them felt that the archdeacon should have been hanged and they shouted obscenities at him. Esmeralda could only stare in horror as his scarlet red robes were ripped off of him and tossed aside. He was stripped until his upper half was exposed and his hands were tied to the whipping post.

The lash struck his back and a dark red line of blood appeared. Esmeralda swallowed against the bitterness that rose up in her throat. The sound of impact was sickening. More and more lines appeared and the droplets of blood began to stain the gray stone. His breath became ragged as the pain really sank in and the tears flowed freely. He was shaking so hard that he could hardly stay standing. Even when his legs buckled beneath him, the bindings on his wrists held him in place. Esmeralda had lost count of the strikes.

She saw the other cleric at the front of the crowd, the one that didn't like her or Quasimodo. His mouth was open in shock as he stared at Claude. A searing look of hatred came from his dark eyes when he turned his gaze on her. It was childish, she knew, but she stuck her tongue out at him. He had caused at least half of this mess! If he hadn't arrested her again, most of the trouble might have been avoided. The man doing the whipping wiped the sweat from his brow and continued.

"See the way he looks at you…even now?" the gypsy king said coyly. Sure enough, Claude was craning his neck to look at Esmeralda. The look was the most pathetic one she'd ever seen. The rope was chafing his wrists in addition to the damage done to his back. Through the red haze of pain, however, she was the only thing he cared watch. The other faces of the crowd were ugly and cruel, but hers…was that a small amount of pity seeping through?

Someone cut the bindings and Claude dropped like a sack of stones to the ground. Someone kicked him in the side and the crowd laughed and jeered. He felt things being thrown from all directions. The best he could do was curl into a ball and wait for it all to pass.

Despite the awful pain that came in waves, he was actually relieved. The pain cleansed him, healed him. He had paid for the blood he shed by shedding some of his own. He had spared Esmeralda from physical harm, though he knew there had been psychological torment as well. Those things, he could not take away.

He felt, rather than heard, the crowd disperse. The show was over. They were bored. Dark was approaching and the chilly air did not make his wounds feel any better. He shuddered violently…there was no where to go. There was no way to get himself patched up.

He was an outsider, just like the gypsies.

Footsteps approached him. He knew that awkward gate anywhere.

"Master…"

"Quasimodo, what are you doing out here?"

Claude's voice sounded pathetic and broken from weeping. He felt Quasimodo trying to get him to sit up; the hunchback could not understand him unless he could read Claude's lips.

"What are you doing out here?" Claude repeated more slowly.

"You are hurt. I came to help you."

He hoisted Claude over his shoulder despite Claude's protests. He hauled him away from the public square and to the small dock by the water. Claude felt dizzy and sick to his stomach. When Quasimodo finally set him down, Claude actually did retch a couple of times. Quasimodo was careful not to touch his back and instead patted his shoulder for comfort. With a resigned sigh, Claude just lay flat on the cool wood. He was too exhausted, too sick, and in too much pain to go on.

He became aware of Quasimodo spreading a blanket over his back.

"Stay there, Master. I will be right back."

Claude closed his eyes. The sound of the water lapping past comforted him somewhat. Regardless of how badly he felt, he knew that Esmeralda was safe. That was all that mattered.

"Over here," Quasimodo said, dragging someone else by the sleeve. Claude's eyelids fluttered open for a fraction of a second, then closed again. The blanket was removed and a hiss of sympathy came from seeing the lash-marks. A cold rag touched the wounds and he flinched violently.

"Master, hold still," Quasimodo said, pinning his shoulders down.

The wounds all burned like Hellfire and Claude groaned in pain. Then, a second substance was being put on. It was thicker and soothed the inflamed flesh. Feeling Claude relax, Quasimodo released him.

"It's going to leave a lot of scars, but I don't think these will get infected now," a familiar voice said.

Claude turned his head and forced his eyes to open. Though the image that swam before him was blurry, he could just make out the poet's face.

"What are you doing here?" he croaked.

"I'm here as a favor," Pierre answered, "I asked you to save Esmeralda and you did. You must really care about her."

"I do," Claude said through clenched teeth—he was still quite sore.

Just then, a handkerchief blotted out his vision for a moment. The cold cloth felt good on his hot, sticky face where sweat and tears had mingled. The rest of the world seemed quite far away, strange and dreamlike, but one voice pierced the darkening haze in his mind. It was a voice he'd longed to hear with words he'd longed to hear.

"I'll try."

His violently shaking hand closed around hers and a contented sigh escaped his throat.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Okay...leaving out a description of Claude worked when I only meant for it to be a oneshot. I'm still addicted to the version I've been using (1982 Derek Jacobi). That's where my description comes from. I had to rewrite this chapter five or six times before I got satisfied with it. Claude/Esmeralda fluff coming up. I couldn't help myself.

Esmeralda's POV:

"What have I gotten myself into?" Margot muttered.

Margot was a friend of ours. She was letting us stay until we could make more permanent arrangements for the archdeacon. They fought like cats and dogs—Margot was like an old mother and treated the archdeacon like her son. The archdeacon, of course, did not welcome this type of fawning and fussing and spent a majority of his time alone. He was careful to prove he wasn't ungrateful: he would not allow Margot to carry anything heavy or do anything that involved physical exertion. She would then tell him that just because she was old didn't mean that she was an invalid and they'd start arguing again. It seemed that neither could please the other. Quasimodo, Pierre, and I were rather amused, much to both of their chagrins. I kept my distance from the archdeacon, not wanting to provoke his passions now that he was showing some restraint. I knew it was difficult for him to be around me.

One night, however, an encounter with him became unavoidable.

Quasimodo practically ran over me in his state of panic.

"Esmeralda! Esmeralda!"

"What is it, Quasimodo?" I asked, seeing his one good eye wide in fear.

"My master is _gone_! I can't find him anywhere!"

His hands seized mine and I could feel the tremors of fear racing through his muscles.

"Are you certain he's missing? Maybe he just went for a walk," I said calmly.

He didn't seem convinced.

"All right…how long has he been gone?" I asked.

"Since the sun was right there," Quasimodo said, pointing to a spot in the sky.

"Did he say anything to you?" I asked.

"No."

I frowned.

"What was he doing before he left?"

"Praying."

An ominous feeling emerged in the pit of my stomach. As much as I hated to admit it, I was glad I had known where he was. As long as someone else could tell me where he was, it made it easier to avoid him. I knew that we were both safe then…but now…

"Come with me," I told Quasimodo. We found Pierre trying to talk an unconvinced soldier into buying one of his poems.

"Pierre, I need your help," I told him.

The soldier left hastily.

"What is it?"

"It's the archdeacon…Quasimodo says he's gone missing."

Pierre didn't particularly seem to care at the moment.

"I think he might be ill," I said after a moment, "he's been looking rather disheveled lately."

"That's hardly surprising," Pierre said dismissively, "that cathedral's all he's known for a long time. It would be enough to put anyone into a state of shock for things to change so quickly."

"Still…something's not right. We should help Quasimodo find him, even if it's just to relieve his panic."

Pierre reluctantly agreed.

"You're right," he sighed, "you go that way. I'll go this way. Quasimodo, why don't you go back to the house in case he comes back?"

Quasimodo nodded, glad to know that someone was acting.

"Take this with you," Pierre said, giving me a small dagger, "I doubt seriously that he'd do anything to you if he really is sick, but it can't hurt to take precautions."

I hid the dagger in the folds of my skirt and we split up. Pierre knew it would do no good to tell me not to go out in the dark—I had been defying some of his protectiveness since we were married.

Now, I was searching for the only man who had ever been an active threat to me. Somewhere, shrouded in the darkness, I hoped for the shadows to yield him.

It was getting cold very fast now that the sun had gone down. I looked around, hoping he would see me and come forward. I shivered a little; I wished I'd remembered to get a cloak. I had been inside brushing Djali's coat when Quasimodo had found me. The other gypsies knew not to harm him since he had befriended me in the bell tower.

A movement to the side caught my attention. I whipped around, heart thundering. I stared into the shadows, hoping it wasn't someone with ill intent.

Then, I saw the eyes.

Lit by the moonlight, they had an unnatural glow to them. I had seen them before, but they had a certain glassiness to them now.

He stared at me for a moment, staying perfectly still. Without his robes, he looked even thinner than he had at the cathedral. The white shirt he wore hung loosely around his scrawny frame. The trousers he wore were only held by the belt; they might have fit him once. His cheeks were hollow and pale. He looked more like a specter than the shattered shell of a man. Beneath the shirt, I could vaguely make out the line of bandages that Margot had put on him.

"Esmeralda…"

His whisper was barely audible. He said my name as though it were something sacred and wondrous. I wondered how he was staying upright; his body was shaking violently.

"Quasimodo is looking for you," I told him. He shrugged carelessly.

"You had him very worried," I continued awkwardly. I wondered if he was listening to a word I said.

His blue-green eyes blazed with an unnatural light. It was as though his insides were burning up and the glow of the flames was showing through his eyes. When he walked, he seemed to be shaking even worse. It was as though his skin was all that held him together.

"Stay there," I demanded, not wanting a careless carriage driver to run him over. I crossed the street, secretly praying he'd keep his hands to himself.

"You were worried?"

He seemed surprised. I was puzzled; when had I said that?

"Quasimodo was worried," I corrected him, "he asked us to help you find him."

He swayed uneasily. Out of instinct, I grabbed him to keep him from falling to the cold stones.

_Goodness…he feels as if he just popped out of an oven,_ I thought, _his body's like a glowing coal!_

"Come on," I sighed, "you need to be inside out of the cold."

He didn't smile, but his expression told me that he'd follow me anywhere. That's why I was so surprised when he tore away from me a few seconds later. He knew we were headed to Margot's and he didn't want to go back.

Quasimodo rounded the corner and let out a joyous yell when he saw his master. I think he woke half of Paris with the noise. People began to open their shutters and snap angrily at him.

"Shhh!" I hissed.

I couldn't help but smile when Quasimodo tackle-hugged Claude. The gesture nearly knocked him over. Irritated, Claude shoved him away.

"You must come home master! You are sick!" Quasimodo told him. Not giving Claude a chance to protest, he picked him up as though he weighed nothing more than a sack of grain. Claude protested, striking at him, but the blows were weak. Quasimodo seemed hurt emotionally, but he refused to let go of Claude.

"Let's go," I told Quasimodo, "we need to get him off the street."

Pierre found us and came sprinting down the sidewalk.

"I see you found him," he commented.

Right at that moment, Claude let loose a nasty bout of swearing, causing all of us to wince. I wasn't aware that he knew such words and oaths.

"Don't worry, Quasimodo," I told the distraught hunchback, "he's very sick…he doesn't know what he's saying."

Quasimodo nodded. The three of us hurried back to Margot's. Margot's knitting fell to the floor when she stood up.

"My God!" was all she could muster.

"He's got a bad fever," I explained, "I think he's been hallucinating a little."

Quasimodo finally eased Claude to the floor. Furious at being handled that way, he crossed his arms and glared. Quasimodo winced under the intense stare, but he was refusing to believe that he'd done anything wrong. Deciding that he'd endured enough abuse, I grabbed Claude's hand and led him away like a child.

"Come on," I told him gently.

He resisted for a moment as though he suspected something. Then, he followed me.

"What were you doing out there?" I couldn't help but ask. I was speaking to him as one would a child, but I couldn't stop myself from doing it. His eyes watered a little bit.

"Looking for you," he choked out.

"Looking for me?" I repeated stupidly.

"I haven't seen you since that night you brought me here," he lamented, "I promised not to bother you again…I didn't dare get close to you…but I just wanted to _see_ you. I wanted to be sure that you were really all right. One look…that's all I wanted."

Pity shot through my heart. He seemed so broken. He blinked and a solitary tear flowed down his flushed cheek.

"Shhh," I whispered, "don't cry. You'll make yourself worse."

He swallowed hard, trying to regain his composure.

"You're ill," I told him again, "you need to rest."

"You'll leave again," he accused me, voice raw with sadness and resentment. I suddenly realized that he would probably try to follow me as long as he could walk. His own health meant nothing to him. It was dangerous for him to be wandering the streets in such a state; he would be defenseless.

"I won't," I told him finally.

"Yes, you will! You always do!"

His voice was loaded with anger now. Good God, was there ever a more miserable man? The fever only seemed to intensify his already strong emotions.

"Calm down," I said quietly, "I am not going anywhere."

He stared into my eyes as if he could carve the deception out of my soul with the sharpness of his gaze. After a long moment, he seemed to relax.

"You won't leave? Do you promise?"

"I swear on Quasimodo that I won't leave," I said, being genuine, "but you must promise to let us help you."

Sensing it was safe, Margot entered the room. Pierre and Quasimodo undressed Claude; I turned my back to allow him some modesty. Once he was covered up again, I turned back around.

There were two small beds in the room; I decided to take the other one. Without undressing, I simply took my shoes off and lay down.

It was a rough night. Claude was having a lot of hallucinations and nightmares. Terrified, he lay curled up in a ball beneath his covers and refused to uncover his head. I could hear him pleading with God to get him away from all of the terrible things he was experiencing.

I walked cautiously over to the bed.

"It was just a nightmare," I whispered, "it's over now…it can't hurt you."

Under his ragged ash-blonde hair, I could see a part of a blue-green eye. My heart ached for him.

Maybe that's why when he crawled into bed with me like a frightened child that I didn't chase him away. The vengeful archdeacon of Notre Dame had vanished—in his place was a frightened little boy. It was hard to be upset with him for any reason in that moment. I held him as a mother would and stroked his hair. Eventually, his ragged, frightened breath slowed and he slept. I sang to him until I felt the tension leave his body.

He didn't move after that. He lay perfectly still and slept. His temperature rose and fell constantly and he was damp all over from sweat. I didn't dare try to shift him; as long as he was asleep, he wasn't suffering.

"Poor thing," Margot commented, seeing how the man clung to me as though for dear life.

I wasn't sure what was worse: the dreadful silence or the times when he cried out to God, asking why He had abandoned Claude in his time of need. The things that Claude saw must have been horrible. Always, though, he recognized me and I could get near him when no one else could. The lash-marks on his back were badly inflamed, so we had to be very careful with him.

"It'll be a miracle if he survives this," Margot sighed. She had never borne children, but she loved them intensely. She had come to think of the archdeacon as her child.

Each time he cried my name so piteously, it was getting harder and harder for me to leave him alone. No one said a word about it, but I could tell from their knowing looks that they worried about this attachment I had formed to him.

_It's just until this illness passes,_ I reminded myself, _I can't live the rest of my life in such close proximity to him. I'll leave when he gets well._


	3. Chapter 3

Quasimodo's POV:

I never realized how hot someone's skin could get…everyone I had ever touched was warm. That, my master had said, was one way you could tell that something was alive. I knew it was possible for someone to be too hot, but I never realized being too hot could make somebody _this_ sick. I could only remember being sick once when I was very small. He had explained to me that my body was trying to burn all the bad stuff. Some people died from fevers. Some of them came to Notre Dame when they had no place else to go and died there. Master would give them their last rites, then cross himself and pray for their souls.

I guess I always thought my master was invincible before now. It frightened me to see him so weak, so helpless, like a tiny bird that had fallen from its nest. Most of the things he said didn't make sense. Esmeralda told me it was the "fever doing the talking". I didn't know fevers could talk…I didn't even think they had minds of their own!

I demanded several times that the fever leave my master, but I don't think it listened. The others told me that I would have to be patient and not get upset no matter how cross my master got with me. That part was hard—it made me sad when he yelled at me and struck me.

It got worse. Sometimes he wouldn't even open his eyes. He had stopped talking completely. When he opened his eyes, it didn't look like him looking at me…it was like his body was here but his soul had gone someplace else. Esmeralda stayed with him whenever he was awake, sometimes when he wasn't. Sometimes he would be awake enough to ask for a drink or for the chamber pot, but then he'd be gone again to whatever place he stayed in.

"You really love Claude, don't you?" Margot asked one day. I was never bothered by being asked to do something. I didn't even get angry when Master's belly was upset and had to mop up the puddle of sick.

"He has been good to me," I told her as I scrubbed the floor, "he takes care of me. Now I must take care of him."

It seemed to take forever for my master to get better. He had taught me to read, so sometimes I read out loud. Margot had her own copy of the Bible, so I read the scriptures. Whether he could hear me or not was uncertain, but it made me feel better.

One day when his eyes opened, he actually looked _at_ me rather than past me.

"Quasimodo," he whispered. I came closer to the bed and put my hand on his.

"How long have I been ill?"

I wasn't sure. I'd lost track of the days.

"A long time," I answered.

"You must miss the cathedral," he commented, "you could have gone back if you wanted to."

I shook my head.

"Don't urge me to leave you or to turn back from you. Where you go I will go, and where you stay I will stay. Your people will be my people and your God my God. Where you die I will die, and there I will be buried. May the LORD deal with me, be it ever so severely, if anything but death separates you and me," I quoted from the book of Ruth.

For the first time in a very, _very _long time, my master smiled. I don't think I can remember the last time he smiled at me.

"I have been praying very, very hard," I told him, "and I guess God finally heard me."

Master squeezed my hand.

"Esmeralda has not left either," I explained to him, "she stayed just like she said she would."

He seemed confused, but he probably couldn't remember.

"Where is she now?" he asked.

"Downstairs," I explained, "should I go get her?"

"Not now," he said, the tiredness making his voice heavy, "I'll speak with her when she comes back."

His eyes were closing again. I knew he wanted to sleep, so I left.

Esmeralda was standing at the top of the stairs. She had tears in her eyes. Not sure if I'd done something wrong, I tried to figure out if I had.

"Why are you sad?" I asked.

"I'm not sad."

To prove it, she smiled.

"Then why do you cry?" I asked.

"What was that…I know I have heard it before, that verse? It's beautiful."

I repeated what I had said and she nodded.

"It is from the book of Ruth," I said, "I will show you."

"I don't know how to read," she admitted.

"Master can teach you when he is well," I told her.

She shrugged.

"Anyway, it was just…sweet. I always knew you cared about him, I just never realized how much. I ought to get him something to eat while he's still awake."

Away she went.

I understood why my master cared about her so much. It was hard for anybody not to. She was the only one who could ever make him happy. She was so kind and so beautiful…Even though Pierre was a nice man, I wish Esmeralda loved my master so that he would smile all the time.


	4. Chapter 4

Claude's POV

Margot was a nice enough woman, but unnecessarily fussy. I wasn't used to people being that way. It was bad enough when I became the archdeacon that Andre, my assistant, wanted to be everywhere with me. I had wondered if he'd ever heard of personal space—I'm surprised he didn't follow me into the privy as well.

I began to realize under Margot's care that Margot was just as bad. She fussed at me so much that I began to lose my temper. She was an old woman and had no one around to help take care of her. Though chopping the wood made my hands blister and my wounds burn like Hellfire, I found that the swinging and exertion made me feel better. Margot failed to understand that and kept trying to coax me back in the house. I think I scared her a few times—I would swing with such an intensity at times that she probably thought I would split her skull with the axe.

I only allowed her to change my dressings because I couldn't reach certain spots on my back to rub the salve in. I got tired of arguing with her about what I was capable of, so I shouted at her one day just to leave me alone. I'd been trying to pray and she distracted me. Who did she think she was, barging in on my private moments with God?

"Now, see here, you ungrateful-"

I didn't hear the rest of her statement. I had already started to walk away.

Funny…I always thought that Paris was as familiar to me as the back of my hand. Now, I was seeing so much that I had never noticed before…when had there been so many poor people? When had there been so many beggars and prostitutes and homeless children? It seemed that I had lost sight of them over the years…

Some of them looked up at me with big eyes. I had nothing to offer them, not even words of comfort. Would they believe me if I said there was a better world than this one? I always believed that God had a reason for everything, but it was hard for me to wrap my mind around _this_…The stench in the back allies was nauseating. I couldn't believe people actually lived in such squalor. It was different now that I was nearly one of them, just a lucky outcast.

I realized how much I owed to Esmeralda, Pierre, Margot, and Quasimodo. My heart trembled when I came to the conclusion that I had atoned for most of my sins, but I had missed a big one: pride.

I had never thanked God for all that I'd had. Sure…I said prayers of thanks…but they had become mere habits, things I said to please people around me, mere ceremonial things I was expected to say. I realized I hadn't been genuinely thankful for those basic necessities in a long time. My wounds burned in the cold, but I ignored them. This shirt was too thin for the cold…I was hot earlier from my exertion of chopping wood before I had tried to pray, but my sweat had cooled and thoroughly chilled me.

The more I roamed the streets, the more oddly I felt. The world started to take on a dreamlike quality as my vision became fuzzy. I attributed it to mere shock, but it didn't wear off. My legs began to tremble as though they were water.

I was almost accosted by someone—it happened so fast that I never registered the movement. The detestable bunch held a dagger to my throat while they searched me. Finding nothing of value on my person, they fled. I almost sank to the sidewalk right then and there, my heart beating so hard that it felt determined to escape my ribcage. My body had gone cold all over.

_What a terrible place this is…_my thoughts cried out. In the walls of the cathedral, I had always been relatively safe. No one dared commit a criminal act inside its walls…now, here I was.

Alone.

I had never felt so alone in my life. Ironically enough, my wanderings had taken me to the front steps. I stared longingly at the soft glow of candlelight coming from within. It was warm in there…

_Just go back to Margot's,_ the logical side of me pushed, _just go…God has given you shelter and yet you remain ungrateful for it._

But I did not. In fact, I went in the opposite direction. An image of _her_ appeared in my mind. I had not seen Esmeralda since that terrible night of my flogging. I had stayed conscious long enough to hear her answer my plea for forgiveness with two precious words: _I'll try._

When I woke, she was gone. Pierre was there, but he left soon after seeing that I was awake. He'd explained to me whose house I was in. Then Margot stepped in and took over. I was bitter about Esmeralda being gone and my mood did not improve over the course of the day. I'd been less than friendly to Quasimodo, who knew to stay out of the way during my moods. I'd been far worse to Margot, who only shrugged and endured my nastiness with calm and rational responses.

I now wandered in search of her. Part of me knew that it would be nearly impossible to find her in a city this size at this time of night, but a reckless joy filled me. Why shouldn't I go see her? There was nothing in the world that made _that_ a sin! I wouldn't bother her…I would just look at her. I ignored the vivid image that my mind conjured of running my hands over those wondrous curves. No…I could not touch her again.

My cheeks flushed in shame as I remembered the night in the bell tower. I said I wanted her. And then I…

What exactly was I going to do?

I had been unable to go any further than caressing her. Looking out on the streets, I had sent guards to chase off others that were caught in the act. I could see them breathing raggedly, moaning, and rubbing against each other, but what exactly_ were_ they doing? It wasn't really explained anywhere in books; the cathedral library avoided the subject completely. It wasn't something I felt that I could ask someone else…those days were over. If there had been another archdeacon, perhaps, but I had been too proud to ask someone that worked under me and too scared to ask the bishop. They probably all assumed I already knew. I had seen animals mate before, but it didn't _look_ like it felt good to them—surely it was different for humans, otherwise it wouldn't be such a temptation.

What a fool I had been…

One hand reached up to touch my forehead. My emotions had gone to extremes as of late, swinging wildly from one state to another. But tonight, it seemed worse. Maybe just seeing Esmeralda would make me feel better, more calm…I just wanted to know that she was truly unharmed. I would just take a glance at her and then walk away.

If only I knew where I was going…

Things went from bad to worse the further I wandered. Rundown houses and frail-looking shacks littered the area. The moon cast an eerie, ghostly-looking light on everything. I wanted to sit down, just for a moment, but I was too afraid to. I was hopelessly lost and I could not remember which direction I'd come from. The panic started to grow. I was shaking more now from fear worse than the cold. I knew where the cathedral was, but which direction was Margot's house?

I didn't want to go back anyway. Like a petulant child, I refused to ask for directions and continued to wander aimlessly. It was getting harder to think and walk at the same time, which I welcomed. I eventually started to shake so hard that it felt like my bones would rattle apart. Shapes drifted in and out of the shadows and I began to feel as though someone was watching me.

_What on earth was that? _

And then…

The unthinkable happened.

Just as I was ready to give up on God (again), He sent me a miracle.

I recognized that form though I had only seen it in daylight and candlelight. The flowing curls, the soft skin…

"Esmeralda…" I whispered, disbelieving. I had forgotten my promise to myself that I would keep quiet. I started to stagger towards her on legs that were getting more and more difficult to move. They had a strange heaviness as if they had been coated in lead.

She said something about Quasimodo looking for me.

"Stay there," she told me. I could hardly contain myself! She was coming _towards _me! She _wasn't_ running away!

The excitement was too much and my knees buckled just as Quasimodo and the poet reached us. Esmeralda started to lead me, but I suddenly realized that we were going to Margot's house. Rebellion made me prideful and I pulled away from her. I'd follow her _anywhere else_ she wanted, but not there! Quasimodo, forgetting that I very much hated to be carried, hoisted me over his shoulder.

"Put me down, you misshapen oaf!" I'd snapped. I struck at him, only eliciting a few winces.

They stared at me.

I wondered if I was possessed. Things came out of my lips that I didn't realize I'd heard before. Such horrid, vile, awful things! I willed myself to shut up, that Esmeralda's lovely ears did _not_ need to hear these things, but I had a hard time stopping myself. By the time we reached Margot's house again, all I could do was to cross my arms in frustration.

_What was wrong with me?_

They told me over and over I was sick. Yes, I knew that…who cared? I just wanted to be away from their fussing. I wished I had a bedroom door I could lock.

"You're ill," Esmeralda said, "you need to rest."

My frustration mounted. I had only just found her and now she was going to leave AGAIN. She _always_ ran away. How could she not understand that I _needed_ her?

I was stunned that she swore on Quasimodo that she wouldn't leave me.

That was when the absolute exhaustion finally claimed me. The next thing I knew, I was undressed and in bed.

I woke at one point in the other bed _with_ Esmeralda. I don't remember how I got there, but I didn't question it. I closed my eyes and went back to sleep unintentionally—I only meant to pretend at first. I wanted her to stay with me, to hold me with such tenderness for forever.

The rest was a blur. Days and nights were all mixed up. The sunshine was painfully bright and hurt my eyes. Then, the darkness would press in on me with all its horrors. I had trouble figuring out what was fever dream and what was reality. Sometimes I forgot that it was only a hallucination entirely—that was the most frightening. The things that I saw and heard had me truly convinced at times that God had turned His back on me and that I had gone to Hell.

"I've either gone to Hell or I've lost my mind," I sobbed at one time—I wasn't even aware of whether it was day or night. Time had ceased to mean anything to me.

"No, you haven't," she assured me gently, "you're just ill…when this fever breaks, you'll stop dreaming all these horrible things."

I looked at her, tears streaming down my burning cheeks.

"You'll be a dream as well," I whimpered, "…you'll vanish like smoke into thin air…God help me…I can't help but want you in spite of Hell itself assaulting my mind…"

My head came to rest on her chest. I closed my eyes and listened to the rhythm of her heart. It was the sweetest sound in the world, more musical and more moving than the best hymns we sang.

I was still determined that God had left me, but I knew He still existed. How could He not? The proof itself was in the music that her heart made.

"Esmeralda…"

"Shhh….go to sleep."

After that, I vaguely remember tasting broth a few times. I didn't mind that, and I didn't mind the tea. Both tasted good. But there was another substance that I absolutely hated because it was so bitter.

"Swallow," Esmeralda or Margot would demand, "it's the only way you'll get better."

Of course, I would choke it down. What choice did I have?

The _other_ things were worse. I couldn't get up and relieve myself in private, so I had to have help with that. Each time I had to ask, I felt my pride being smashed to pieces. Maybe that was my punishment for that. Thankfully, I was always told when Esmeralda had left the room. It was one of the most degrading positions I'd ever been placed in and it couldn't be helped. The only thing worse than having to ask for help would have been having an accident. Soon, the only indicator that time was passing were three things: bits of conversations that I would hear, attempts to feed me, and the dreaded feeling of having to empty myself. I really did begin to think I was going to die, but I started to not care. Death had to be easier than this…

The first face I saw clearly was Quasimodo's. Strangely enough I was even less repulsed than usual. I could not remember what I had said, but I won't forget him quoting the book of Ruth:

"Don't urge me to leave you or to turn back from you. Where you go I will go, and where you stay I will stay. Your people will be my people and your God my God. 17 Where you die I will die, and there I will be buried. May the LORD deal with me, be it ever so severely, if anything but death separates you and me."

I never really thought of myself as a father. I had always dismissed the word "Father" as a title when addressed that way. Regardless of what I was to Quasimodo, he loved me in ways that I wished I could love other people. I felt the sharp pain of guilt stab my soul. I had not been especially kind to him lately and I hadn't bothered to speak on his behalf when he'd only done what I asked. I told him to get the gypsy girl and he'd gotten arrested on harassment charges. Pride had also made me careless there…I'd left him on the pillory without so much as a backward glance.

_I really should pay more attention to those around me…_I thought, _it seems I've been rather ungrateful to all of them and they STILL saved my life._

My eyes were closed, but I heard the exchange between Quasimodo and Esmeralda. If she was willing, if _God_ was willing, I would love nothing more than to teach her.

_If I can just be more patient…_I thought…_I can. I must._


	5. Chapter 5

Pierre's POV:

Things had been Hellish lately, but it looked as though we might all survive this. Quasimodo was happier than a child at Christmastime now that his beloved master was awake. Margot had finally got the archdeacon to stop fussing and protesting and to listen to her. Esmeralda was relieved that he was no longer hallucinating; she believed that being terrified of his fever-dreams made him worse.

I was glad too…but I must admit, I was wary.

The archdeacon wanted Esmeralda. I knew he cared for her, but I was uncertain as to exactly in what manner. I'd seen a feverish light in his eyes before, but that was different than a fever from illness. I still couldn't believe he'd had the nerve to want me to "sell" her to him.

I did not trust him.

Though she still detested his previous actions against her, it would seem that my "wife" had softened towards him. Even when he started appearing to be lucid again, she was never far away.

I remembered all too vividly how he would allow no one else around him except for Esmeralda. Each time he'd cried her name, she would stop whatever she was doing to go comfort him. Most of the time, he'd have to be _touching_ her before he would calm down. Then, content with her attention, he would sleep like the dead. I tried very hard not to think about it.

_She's only being kind,_ I thought to myself.

I did not once believe that the archdeacon faked his illness. He seemed too distraught, too ashamed to do something like that. As soon as he appeared to be lucid again, he was overly cautious in even talking about Esmeralda. He spoke very politely to her when she did finally come upstairs and kept his words to a bare minimum.

"Don't worry," Margot had said, "I will take good care of him."

I knew she would.

It was harder on Esmeralda to leave than it was for me. I watched from the doorway as she gave him an awkward goodbye. I saw his eyes close for a moment, just as they had in the courtroom when he heard the bad news. That had been the split second before he'd stepped in on her behalf.

And I suddenly understood why.

He had saved her, which was why she'd taken such pains with him. She felt as though she owed him, so she'd suffered through the fever right along with him.

I only hoped that they both understood it was over.

My words to him were few as well. I could see the suspicion in his eyes as well now that they weren't glowing from fever dreams. I was polite and courteous to him as well.

But I was relieved when we finally left.

Djali had been munching away at the herbs in the yard—I'd tried to tie her up where she wouldn't be able to eat them. God only knows what the stupid creature had eaten…I was surprised she hadn't poisoned herself.

Home felt strange and alien after being at Margot's so much, but I was glad to be back in my own bed. It would be just the two of us again and life would go on the way it should have.

I could not understand why Esmeralda seemed so subdued.

"What? Is it _Claude_?"

My voice sounded a little harsher than I meant it to. We had only just finished dealing with Phoebus. Now, we had to contend with the archdeacon as well. Esmeralda, I hoped, had not developed feelings for him. If so, she had a serious problem, for she would always choose men that got her in trouble.

"His temperature was down, he was eating solid food, he could sit up, what more do you want?" I pressed. I sounded silly and jealous, but I was. It seemed that no matter what I did for Esmeralda, it was never enough. It seemed to be a nightmarish idea indeed that she would choose the man who had tried to hurt her.

"It's silly," she sighed.

"You can tell me," I pushed, "I'm sorry I've been so impatient. I know you've gone through a lot of ordeals at once this last week."

"I know I haven't abandoned him," Esmeralda told me, "I kept my promise. But…I feel strange. He told me a lot of things while he was still half-mad from the fever. I know a lot more than he probably wants me to know."

I couldn't think of anything to say, so I let her continue.

"He told me of a brother he was missing…I believe the name was 'Jehan'. He hasn't seen him in years. And then, he told me of…other things. Very personal things. He told me that he never could have violated me because he doesn't know how."

_That _was an image I could have done without. I was glad for his lack of experience, but I still didn't want to go any further on the subject.

"And?" I pressed.

Maybe it was because she knew he had been bluffing. Maybe it was seeing him so weak and defenseless that had made her unafraid of him. Maybe, just like the rest of us, she now knew he was human and capable of botching things up once in a while.

"I know I can't talk to him about anything he said," she explained as best she could, "but I feel as if something's changed. He trusts me with his deepest, darkest secrets."

"Did you tell him any of yours?"

"No…I was too busy trying to get him calmed down."

"That's a relief. It doesn't mean he'll remember something later on."

But that didn't seem to be the problem. Esmeralda still had the expression that said "I have a problem".

"I think it's normal to bond with someone when you've taken care of them," I finally said, "you see mothers do it with their children all the time—even when they didn't bear the child themselves."

"But he's not a child and I'm not a mother," she said softly.

"He was still weak and helpless. It was close enough."

I decided not to take any cheap shots at the poor archdeacon because it would be too easily. For almost a straight week, he'd needed help with _everything._ He was an infant enough as far as I was concerned.

Esmeralda sighed and gave up trying to explain it, but I knew it was closer to the last one.

Part of me vaguely wondered if this was how the archdeacon had felt…it was hard to look at someone and know you were on the losing end of the battle. It hurt to know that you really didn't stand a chance against the others. He had, at least, the protection of the church to offer her. All of us that had ever loved Esmeralda could give her shelter and make sure that all her needs were met, but we all knew she wanted something else, too. None of us really knew what that was.

I was glad, at least, to be her friend so that I could watch over her. Esmeralda seemed awfully naïve at times. She was too innocent for her own good, but none of the rest of us wanted to take that from her. It was just a part of who she was…

I took up my quill pen and began to write.


	6. Chapter 6

Margot's POV:

Each day, Claude grew a little stronger. The flush faded from his cheeks, leaving them pale as death at first. Though his appetite was poor (as was to be expected), I demanded that he tell me what sounded good and I made it in the kitchen. He couldn't live on broth and tea the rest of his life. I was ecstatic when he began to eat solids again. Slowly, he was able to move around more. He often spent the days huddled in a blanket by the fireplace, but I didn't tell him to go upstairs. He was tired of laying in bed. I would watch him and Quasimodo read to each other while I made my herbal remedies.

The lash marks had become inflamed during the infection and a most horrifying substance wept out of them. I'd been cleaning the wounds out every day and they began to heal as well. Most of the inflammation was gone now and the skin was sealing nicely. I began to show him how to make some of these remedies in case any of the priests at the cathedral ever became ill or injured. Glad to have something to do, he learned quickly and only had to be shown one or two times. His mind was like a sponge!

Oh, how I wished I could claim this beautiful man to be my son…

Though he was definitely better, I could tell he missed Esmeralda. Sometimes when he thought Quasimodo and I weren't paying attention, he would gaze longingly through the window glass. It was the same expression each time…

"Talk to me, Claude," I prodded one evening.

He looked up at me, feigning puzzlement.

"About what?"

I smiled.

"I'm old, Claude. I'm a bit harder to fool than the others. You miss the gypsy girl, don't you? Ah…let's see. The saying goes that one wears their heart on their sleeve, but I say you wear your heart in your eyes. They tell me everything."

He shrugged.

"There's nothing I can do about it. Why talk about it?"

An undertone of dejection laced his voice.

"Because you can," I said. I doubted anyone else at the cathedral knew about his feelings for the girl.

"I miss her. There. I said it."

He turned his head back toward the window. There was nothing but blackness out there.

"Something tells me that she misses you, too," I said casually, "you're hard not to miss."

He forced a laugh.

"I've heard otherwise," he said, hinting at Pierre and the other gypsies.

"Well, you can be a bit standoffish at times, but can't we all? Besides, you have a good sense of humor…it just needs dusting off."

He glanced sideways at me.

"You must have been a good mother at one time," he commented.

I felt warm all over as if I had just taken a drink of hot tea.

"Why, thank you, Claude. I do miss my son…you remind me a lot of him, you know."

I reached out a hand and smoothed a strand of dark blonde hair out of his face.

"He had the same color of hair…under the right light, it would turn almost red like a flame, then under a different light, it would look almost silver. And he had those big, expressive eyes as well, only his were a pale green, like a summer bean sprout. He got those things from his father. He was smarter than the Devil himself…he was smarter than I am. He could read something literally one time word for word and remember it the rest of his life. He got in trouble in school plenty of times because the teachers thought he was being idle."

"What was his name?"

"Jacques."

"What happened to him?"

"He died…of fever. I tried as hard as I could to save him, but I never knew what caused it. I went to the cathedral and asked the priests to pray for him. I really did believe he was going to make it…and then, something terrible happened."

Claude waited for me to continue.

"The priest said 'there's no way he'll survive this…I'd better give him his last rites'. He said that in front of Jacques and I know Jacques heard him. I felt Jacques give up—I _felt_ it. He opened his eyes one last time and mouthed 'I love you, mother' and then he was gone. He might have made it…I don't think the priest meant any harm, but he wasn't thinking about Jacques potentially hearing him. I still believe there is a God, but he doesn't dwell in fancy cathedrals or in hair shirts worn under black robes and crucifixes. He dwells all around us and inside of us and in the absolutely untouchable places of humanity."

Something had entered Claude's mind. He sat still, staring through me rather than at me as he collected his thoughts. There was a crackle as Quasimodo broke the almost-burned log down so that he could fit another one in the fireplace.

"I saw some things that unnerved me the night I_ really_ started getting sick," he said, voice weighted, "things I had never noticed. Beggars missing limbs….children dying of disease and starvation…people I'm almost certain I pass by every day and I wonder how I didn't notice them before."

"That's because you're one of them now," I told him, "and you dwell among them rather than above them. If you do return to Notre Dame, you should use this experience to better it."

Ah, I had done good. I saw the resolution lock into place.

"Madame Margot…I'm sorry I've been so unbearable lately," he apologized.

"Phh…I've handled plenty more troublesome than you could ever be," I assured him, "I knew you were dealing with a lot at once."

I think it surprised Quasimodo to see his master hug me. It surprised me a little, but I hugged back without hesitation.

"She'll be back," I assured Claude, "I have a feeling she'll be back."

He only gave a nod. It was late; we all needed to get to bed or we'd keep talking until dawn.


	7. Chapter 7

Jehan's POV:

A splitting headache was not the only ache I had. The bitter taste in the back of my throat coupled with my dry mouth made for a miserable morning. I mumbled to myself when I realized I had slept on the sidewalk…again.

Stupid whore. I never should have trusted her. The few coins I had left were nowhere on my person. And I couldn't even remember if I'd enjoyed myself…

Cursing, I struggled to my feet. Money…where could I get money…

There was work, but that was too much…well, work. Hmm…my insufferable brother…how long had it been since I'd seen him? More importantly, would he want to help me out?

I glanced over at the cathedral. It seemed an awfully long walk, but it couldn't be any worse than the bleeding headache I had. I was gathering up what was left of my strength when I noticed a man and a woman talking to an old beggar woman. She gestured towards me.

_What in the…?_

I couldn't decide if they looked like trouble or not. I lost my chance to walk away; they started towards me.

"Are you Jehan Frollo?" the woman asked.

"For you, sweetheart, I could be anybody," I purred.

She seemed a little taken aback by my words.

"We've come with word about your brother," the man said, linking his arm protectively with the woman's, "he's been seriously ill recently and almost passed away."

I shrugged.

"So?"

That surprised them.

"So…don't you want to go and see him? To make up with him?"

"Is he still a priest?" I asked in a mocking tone.

"He is now the archdeacon of Notre Dame."

Hmmm…archdeacons had money…didn't they? Surely they had to keep some on hand. He could always write it off as an act of charity. I started towards Notre Dame cathedral.

"Not that way," the girl said, "he's staying with a friend of ours."

I gave them a Look.

"What's he outside for? Don't they all stay in the cathedral? Or have the rules changed?"

"We'll explain it on the way."

I staggered along behind them.

I wondered what my old friend, Phoebus was up to. I hadn't seen him in quite some time…he and I would sometimes look for ladies together. It was always great to get drunk with someone else…you didn't have to worry about looking like a fool all by yourself. Though alone was almost as good…

"Who in the Hell is this?" the old lady at the door asked bluntly.

"Nice to meet you, too," I said sarcastically, "I came to see my brother. He is still here, isn't he?"

"Who's there?" a familiar voice called from the top of the stairs. There was a series of footsteps. Then, I could see him.

Though my head still hurt, I was more aware of everything now. He had gotten a little older, the lines on his face a tiny bit deeper, but he was still my insufferable crucifix-waving brother. It was hard to say whose appearance shocked him more. His eyes kept darting back in forth between me and the delicious lady on the poet's arm.

"Jehan?"

His voice was high-pitched almost like a kitten's mew.

"Well, Claude…why aren't you in that great big cathedral? Did they throw you out or something?"

He winced and I realized too late that I'd said something.

"Where have you been?" he asked quietly.

"All over the world," I sighed, "but I got tired of it when I nearly got thrown off the last ship. Apparently, I counted as a stowaway. I came back to Paris about two weeks ago."

He ventured closer, but turned his face away in disgust.

"God's Cross, Jehan…did you fall in a wine cask recently?"

I grinned.

"Close enough."

"Never mind that," the old lady simpered, "when was the last time you had a _bath?_"

I shrugged. I couldn't really remember.

"Don't know…I've had a bit of bad luck recently," I said as pathetically as I could, "my purse got stolen last night."

Only the poet seemed suspicious. The rest just looked at each other.

"So…can you help me out a bit?"

My brother shook his head.

"I wish I could…" he said sympathetically, "but…I have nothing to give you at the moment. Some unfortunate events have taken place recently."

I raised an eyebrow.

"Hmmm…like what?"

"I'll tell you when the hangover stops."

With that, Claude looked over at the old bat.

"Oh, no. He is NOT staying here," she growled.

He didn't break his gaze.

"Don't look at me with those big blue eyes, no!"

The slightest of a smile ghosted his lips. He was going to win, I could see it.

"Oh…Claude! Fine! He can sleep it off, but if he wets or vomits in his sleep, YOU are in charge of cleaning it up!"

"Come on," Claude motioned me forward.

"I'm only doing this because I know you'll make me regret it if I don't," she scolded my brother as we ascended the stairs.

"What an insufferable old bat," I snorted.

"Isn't she?" Claude chuckled. Then, suddenly sober, he sat down on the bed beside me.

"You and I have a lot to catch up on later," he commented.

"Yes, I know…"

He held a small bottle out to me.

"Take a drink. Margot swears by it."

Too desperate to argue, I upended the bottle and made a face at the taste. All too soon, I was drowsy again and sagged backwards.

_I suppose it's better that I won't have a headache…he'll keep me here all night, lecturing me,_ I thought.


	8. Chapter 8

Esmeralda's POV:

I could not help but feel sorry for Claude Frollo. Pierre and I had not yet gone when he came back downstairs. Margot talked us into having breakfast. Pierre and I didn't object; Margot's cooking was quite good. I got the distinct feeling that she was keeping us there for more than just the meal's sake, but I said nothing.

I was setting the table. Pierre had gone outside to get more firewood. Margot was taking the morning's bread out of the oven. My stomach rumbled; I couldn't wait for the bread to be cool enough to eat.

"How did you know about Jehan?"

Claude's voice was loaded with nervousness. His head was bowed, but his eyes still looked up at me. He looked like a child asking his mother how she knew he'd done something wrong.

At first, I wasn't sure if I should tell him. Then, I decided that there couldn't possibly be any harm in telling him the truth about that—just as long as he didn't ask what else he had said.

"You told me while you were ill. Do you remember anything about it?"

He shook his head.

"A little," he said, embarrassed, "but I don't remember talking about him."

I decided not to press the issue.

"After you told me about him, I remembered seeing a man from before I met you…a man that looked a little like you. I decided to see if he was still around," I answered, "I wasn't sure if he was really Jehan or not. I didn't want to disappoint you if he wasn't."

He stared at me in surprise.

"How could I _ever_ be disappointed with you?"

He said it so quietly that I almost didn't hear him. A funny feeling squirmed in my stomach and I decided to pretend I hadn't heard.

"I'll save him some breakfast," Margot said, "he'll probably be as hungry as a wolf when that hangover's gone!"

"Thank you," Claude said quietly.

He glanced sideways at me, but did not try to talk again for a while.

I had never seen the priest naked, at least not concerning the lower half, but I knew he was feeling self-conscious anyway. Between the public beating and the illness, he had been stripped bare to the soul. Being vulnerable was not something that he appeared to be good at. I pitied him. Having one's soul bared to another was, in my opinion, more difficult to deal with than being physically naked. I knew he was wondering what else he might have said, what he might have done. My intention was to make him feel better by easing his guilt about Jehan, but I had unknowingly upset him further. I wished I hadn't interfered.

Then again…

What _was_ the right thing to do in this case?

I wanted to say something, to do something to make him feel better, but what? I honestly couldn't think of anything. Fortunately, Pierre returned with the firewood, Margot announced that breakfast was ready, and I was spared any further awkwardness.

Quasimodo had not known I was coming to visit and was quite excited to see me. He insisted on sitting next to me at the table and was talking nonstop about Margot's cat. Her cat had apparently given birth to a litter of kittens while we'd been away. He insisted that I must see them before I leave.

Claude looked as though he might scold Quasimodo for talking so much, but seeing me smile stopped him. In my opinion, Quasimodo was like a child. He was so innocent, so easily amused…It was hard to be cross with him for any length of time. It appeared, for the time being, that the bells had been replaced with kittens as the objects of his affection.

We had all finished eating and Quasimodo enthusiastically helped Margot with the dishes. However clumsy he appeared, he carefully dried each one and put them back in the cupboards (that he could reach). Claude excused himself and went upstairs to check on his brother.

"Esmeralda, would you be a dear and fetch me some herbs from the garden? My old hands are aching something fiercely today…" Margot lamented, "I do believe it will storm soon."

"Of course. Which ones do you need?" I asked, getting the gardening gloves and the basket.

She named them off and I went outside.

I was in the midst of wrestling one of the plants out of the ground (I needed the roots as well as the leaves) when Claude came outside. He did not notice me at first; he went straight to the small well and drew out a bucket of water. I might not have attracted his attention at all if it hadn't been for that stubborn plant. I tugged at it with all of my strength and it suddenly gave way, causing me to fall with a shriek.

Claude turned his head.

I had managed to pull the stubborn thing up, but I had landed on my bottom with my legs all splayed out. Only a little embarrassed, I snapped them closed and was about to scramble upright. He had reached my side before I could stand.

To my astonishment, a burst of laughter escaped my mouth and I couldn't contain it. Maybe it was just a reflex, but the idea of how I must have looked just then amused me.

I could see his mouth twist as he struggled not to laugh as well. He held out his hand for me.

I almost felt guilty; his hands were still creamy white, though they were starting to harden just a little bit from work. Mine were splashed with mud and I was sure I'd gotten my dress dirty as well. He didn't seem bothered by it and hauled me to my feet.

"Thank you," I said breathlessly.

I didn't realize I was still holding his hand until just then. He noticed before I did and loosened his fingers.

"Thank you," he returned, "for bringing Jehan back. You never had to, you know."

I was glad he couldn't remember the wretched state he'd been in. I had never seen a more miserable, heart-broken human in my life.

"You're welcome," I replied.

We walked back to the house in silence. The only sound was the water sloshing in the bucket that he carried. I saw Pierre glancing at us through the kitchen window. I wondered if he was upset.

If he was, he didn't show it. Jehan was sitting at the table and polishing off the cold remains of breakfast. He bantered playfully with Margot, who was laughing merrily at his statements. Quasimodo was setting a pan of cream out for the mother cat.

_It's almost as if we've turned into a family,_ I thought.

The kittens had been brought downstairs and nestled into a bed of old rags. They were funny to watch with their wobbling steps and unopened eyes. The mother cat seemed quite proud of them and didn't mind if we touched them or picked them up. Quasimodo held one out to me and I cautiously received it.

This kitten, I noticed, had some deformities. Its front left limb was shriveled and limp, it had only an awkward stump where its tail should have been, and something seemed wrong with one of its ears.

"It looks like me," Quasimodo informed me, "I want it."

Automatically, I glanced at Claude over the top of the kitten's head.

"You are welcome to the kitten when it can be weaned," Margot said, making sure she looked directly into Quasimodo's face when she spoke.

Then, they were both looking at Claude as well. The archdeacon didn't appear fond of having an animal to keep up with as well as Quasimodo, but he knew he was outnumbered.

"You may have it if you promise to take good care of it," he told Quasimodo.

I saw Claude wince when Quasimodo pounced on him with a hug. The poor thing didn't know his own strength.

"Thank you, Master! Thank you!"

He breathed a sigh of relief when Quasimodo released him. I handed the kitten back and moved to pet the others.

"I imagine the cathedral could use a good mouser," Pierre commented offhandedly.

Claude cringed again.

"Yes…it could…"

I knew what he was thinking. It didn't take a scholar to figure that out. Before I could stop myself, I said what I was thinking:

"You're afraid you can't go back," I blurted out.

Seeing his expression, I immediately regretted saying it. Margot's expression was one of the utmost sympathy. Pierre even seemed to pity him.

Claude swallowed hard.

"Please don't think that I'm ungrateful for all of your help," he pleaded, "I am…I might have died if it weren't for all of you. God was merciful to send all of you when I clearly did not deserve to be saved…but Notre Dame is all I know. The life of a priest is the only life I know and understand…without Notre Dame, I am _nothing_."

"Rubbish!" Margot snorted.

She strode across the room despite the pain in her bones and covered his smooth, creamy hands with her own weathered, gnarled ones.

"Claude Frollo! I don't believe that for a second and whether you know it or not, neither do you!"

Claude stared at her as if she were possessed. Jehan's mirthful face was suddenly sober.

"You speak of God's purpose for each of us, and yet it has never occurred to you that all of this has happened for a reason?"

Claude's face flushed slightly and he bowed his head. I think it was because no one had spoken openly about the incident since it happened. We had all been artfully tiptoeing around the subject.

"Did you ever stop to think that maybe you're trying to live up to standards that no real human being can live up to? You're much too hard on yourself. You need to learn to enjoy life again. You've recovered your strength…you really should get out and get some fresh air and sunshine. Being cooped up in this little old house isn't good for anybody."

Margot looked up at me for a moment, then she turned her attention back to him.

"If you really, _really_ want to express gratitude to us," she said gently, "you need to stop being afraid of the world. If we are all God's creation, why do you fear creation itself? Why do you seal yourself away behind those stone walls and hide your eyes when there's so much of it to see?"

Claude said nothing; I don't think he knew what to say.

"Learn to live," Margot said, "that would be more of a blessing to me than anything."

Slowly, he nodded, though he looked more lost and morose than ever.

"You will, of course, need to be taught to do so," Margot told him, "and the rest of you…you will have to show him."

I never realized until later that I could have averted my eyes, quietly disagreeing with her and therefore extracting myself from making a promise.

Jehan chuckled, no doubt having plenty in mind for the poor archdeacon. It was like listening to the butcher sharpen his knife on the whetstone while a poor little lamb waited nearby.


	9. Chapter 9

Pierre's POV:

To say that the archdeacon was uncomfortable was absolutely an understatement. When Margot suggested that we take him to the marketplace with us, he hadn't exactly jumped for joy. Now, he kept his head down and his shoulders were slumped. Esmeralda, God Bless her, was trying to get him to have a little more confidence.

"Don't put your head down so much," she scolded, "you look as though you've just been to a funeral. Hold your head _up_ so that you can see the world. That's better! Now, straighten your back. You're not an old man yet, you know."

"I'm close," he mumbled, but she pretended not to hear him.

"You've spent too many years hearing of God's creation and _not_ _seeing it._ Look around."

The only thing he seemed to look at willingly was _her._

_Good God…I thought he had actually done me a favor by stabbing Phoebus. He seems a little eager to replace the twit,_ I thought.

"Wait a minute!"

I grabbed both of them by the arms and dragged them into an alley.

"What?" Esmeralda asked, surprised.

"Shhh! _Look over there!_"

Claude and Esmeralda both peeked around the corner and both gasped.

"_Phoebus?_" Esmeralda whispered.

They both had different reactions. Esmeralda went pale and clutched my arm for support. Claude's face alternated between white and several shades of red and he shuddered with anger.

"Damnation! I missed!" he muttered.

Despite the awkwardness of this situation, I clamped both hands over my mouth to stifle the laughter. Esmeralda stared at the priest in shock. He seemed not to even realize what had just come out of his mouth. I could see the wheels turning in his head, trying to figure out how he'd managed not to kill Phoebus.

"Who's that?"

The question came from Esmeralda.

I glanced up again. A young girl, a little younger than Esmeralda, was crossing the street. She wore a dress of light lavender material and her golden curls bounced with every step she took. Phoebus saw her and that same grin I loathed flashed across his face. He swung her up into the air as if she were a child and kissed her very passionately. A few wolfish whistles and remarks came from his fellow guards.

I thought the archdeacon was going to march right out there and try to kill him again!

Esmeralda looked devastated. She had told me at some point that Phoebus was already married, but we weren't sure if this was his wife or simply another mistress. I imagined that seeing it was much more difficult to bear than just being told about it.

"Ah, Fleur! I've been looking everywhere for you!" Phoebus said to the young woman.

"You should know that I am never far away," she chided him playfully.

He just laughed.

"Let's go."

They must have had a destination already in mind, for we never found out what it was.

Esmeralda swallowed hard. I could tell she was trying very hard not to cry.

"He has forgotten me….one would think I'd have forgotten him as well after all this time," she choked out.

Claude turned to face her. He was still angry, but his expression was sympathetic. I slipped my arm around her to comfort her.

"He did not deserve you," Claude said quietly, "even if things would have gone differently, he would have thought you were just another pretty face…he does not know that the inside is even more beautiful than the exterior."

I almost felt bad for him. For a split second, the archdeacon and I had come to an understanding. His eyes locked with mine and I knew exactly what he was thinking:

_We both love her….but we can never have her. Her heart will always belong to another._

"Well," I sighed, "Phoebus is gone. Let us enjoy our outing while we still can."

Esmeralda regained her composure quickly.

"You're right," she said, trying to sound careless about Phoebus, "he isn't worth it. Margot is almost out of everything. If we're lucky, we can secure a few apples for a pie as well."

I counted out the coins to make sure we had enough. Shopping was always easier with Esmeralda; the vendors tended to offer us better prices when she smiled at them. Claude was new to this game and didn't take so kindly to that.

"Did you see that?" he asked acidly after we gained a few free pastries from the baker. Esmeralda had very subtly flirted with him and he'd almost backed into his own oven!

"It's harmless," I assured him, "lots of women do it."

"She might get herself into some sort of trouble!"

"_That_ is precisely why we're here, Your Worship," I told him, "to protect her in case something _does_ go wrong."

The disapproval in his tone was very clear when he spoke.

"You shouldn't be encouraging her to do that. It's dangerous for her and it's…well….isn't it cheating them?"

"Not really," I answered, "in a world where one doesn't exactly get a choice of whether they will eat every day or not, _anything_ is fair. Besides, look at her. Is she really doing anything wrong by simply smiling and being friendly? There are true methods of deceit and more dangerous ones at that. See that beggar over there?"

His eyes followed the direction of my finger.

"The one who…oh…should we call for help?"

"No. Just watch."

The man I had pointed out had dropped to the ground and was foaming at the mouth. A small crowd was gathering while another man (a gypsy man that I was familiar with) asked if there was a doctor present. While the crowd was distracted, a third one began to cut the purse strings and slip them into his own cloth bag that he carried. I imagine that it was lined with rags to prevent the coins from jingling.

Claude's mouth dropped open.

"So, you see? Esmeralda isn't doing anything wrong because we are still paying for Margot's things with money that she earned from her trade," I told him, "no one will hire those men for an honest day's work, so they must survive any way they can. Hunger has no pride."

It seemed to be a lot for him to comprehend at once. There was a paradox working in his mind…I knew he felt sorry for these men, but he knew he didn't have to condone their actions just because he pitied them.

"And what about you? Have you ever…ehm…tricked anyone?" he asked, clearly troubled.

"I can only say this," I replied, "I do the best I can to make a living by selling my written works. There are times that I have had to resort to more desperate measures, but Esmeralda, as my wife, comes first."

Try as he might, he could not find fault with me for that. In the end, it all came back to Esmeralda to him. Everything made sense when Esmeralda was involved.

"Here! There is one for each of us," Esmeralda said, giving each of us a pastry. The warmth felt good in my mouth and the sweetness was like Heaven. Thanks to Margot, Esmeralda and I had not been at risk for starving lately, but the worry was always in the back of my mind. The flaky crust was light; I had a feeling that the baker had just parted with his best wares for Esmeralda's sake. The baker gave her a little wave and his round, chubby face turned as red as an apple. Claude took another bite of his pastry to avoid protesting. That same blue fire burned hotly in his eyes, but it went largely unnoticed.

Then, something _very_ amusing happened.

Claude staggered forward when someone accidentally walked into him. Out of instinct, his hands went up to steady the other person. He found himself looking into the eyes of a young woman.

"Oh! Pardon me, sir!"

She giggled, a soft peachy color filling her cheeks. There was another woman right behind her, a friend or a sister, I assumed.

"Marguerite, you clumsy oaf! Will you get your head out of the clouds for a change?"

The one called Marguerite ignored her. Her golden-hazel eyes had not left the archdeacon's face.

Esmeralda choked a laugh into a cough.

"You know…you resemble the archdeacon of Notre Dame just a little bit….but you are far more handsome than he is!"

Realizing she had said that out loud, her face went from pink to red and she stepped back.

Claude did not know what to say.

"Marguerite! Let's go!" her friend scolded. She grabbed the tittering girl's hand and dragged her away.

Esmeralda and I looked at each other and burst out laughing. Claude watched the poor thing disappear into the crowd. Out of instinct rather than any conscious effort, I imagine, he made the sign of the cross.

"Speak of this again and you will regret it," he snapped at us.

"I suppose we'll be writing Margot a letter, then," I whispered to Esmeralda.

"There you both are! And who was that charming young thing with the raven hair?" Jehan's voice called. He found his way to us.

"Jehan…" Claude groaned, already smelling the wine on his breath.

"I am _not_ drunk, so save your sermons for later," Jehan teased him, "it was only a taste. Margot likes to cook with wine, so I secured her the best bottle in Paris…in return, she will keep me supplied with that special headache remedy for a while."

Claude shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"If only she could cure _mine,_" he mumbled.

It took me a moment to realize that he had just made a joke. Esmeralda, however, chuckled at that. Jehan roared with laughter.

"Aha….so, you _do_ have a sense of humor! Well done, Claude!"

The priest did not smile with his mouth, but amusement sparkled in his eyes.

"By the way, I saw that worthless goose-head, Phoebus. Did you run into him?"

"Not directly," I answered, "we saw him, though. He actually made our friend here angry enough to swear."

Jehan raised an eyebrow and Claude shot me a poisonous look.

"Is that so? We shall have to make him angry more often, then!"

"Maybe we should go find Marguerite," I teased.

Claude crossed his arms.

"Are all of you quite finished laughing at my expense?" he demanded.

"Take it easy, Claude," Jehan said, playfully cuffing him on the shoulder, "we're only joking. We should probably get all of this to Margot before it gets dark. Some of my kinsmen might try to relieve you of your burdens if you understand me."

Claude didn't need to be told twice. He picked up his pace a little bit. Some small-talk was made on the way home, but he didn't participate very much. I think he was still thinking about how Phoebus had inadvertently hurt Esmeralda. Just as he always got when he was angry, he was quiet and surly the rest of the evening.

"Just so you know," I whispered to him before leaving, "I would not find fault with you if your dagger had struck a more fatal blow."

He nodded, though he said nothing. He tried to smile when Esmeralda said goodbye to him, but it was an empty expression. He wore a mask for her sake.


	10. Chapter 10

Margot's POV:

Claude, Esmeralda, Jehan, and Pierre arrived close to sunset. The four of them had probably sampled plenty of things in town, but I had made some stew and bread just in case. My assumptions were correct; they put away all of the food items and promptly sat down. While they were out, I had brewed a few remedies up and Quasimodo had helped me most of the day. He had stirred the more temperamental mixtures while I assembled the glass bottles on the counters. Claude had only to write out the labels for me since my hand wasn't quite steady enough. Quasimodo had been kind enough to chop up all the vegetables for me.

"I brought you this," Jehan said, holding up the bottle of wine.

"That bottle is still full, amazingly enough," Claude mumbled.

Jehan playfully cuffed him.

"Don't tell me that you don't remember getting into the Communion wine once!"

Claude's cheeks flamed and I turned around.

"Oh…I haven't heard this story," I said, inviting him to tell it.

"Jehan, don't you dare!"

Jehan pretended that he was going to knock Claude's chair over.

"Well…it was back when Claude _knew_ how to have fun," Jehan began despite Claude's howls of protests, "he hadn't even been fully ordained yet. I came begging him again for something to eat, but all that was left was a little bit of bread and some wine—a big bottle of it. I took the bottle and up-ended it."

"And I told him to put it down and asked him if he was crazy," Claude responded, "I didn't even offer him the wine, he just went rifling through our cabinets and twisted the cork out!"

"Anyway…" Jehan said, staring at his brother with a wicked grin, "I told him how good it was and I let it waft under his nose. I talked him into having a little…"

"And I discovered the reason why drunkenness is one of the highest evils of society," Claude sighed.

Pierre chuckled.

"_You _were _drunk_?" he snorted.

"Not on purpose!" Claude defended himself.

"Well, suffice it to say that Claude was not an experienced drinker and quite frankly didn't know what the Hell he was doing," Jehan continued before Claude could protest, "he drank more of it than I did. He didn't sip, either, he just _inhaled_ it."

Esmeralda was giggling so much that Claude looked as though he wanted the floor to swallow him up right then and there.

"So, then what happened?" I pressed.

"Well, Claude is a very _happy,_ very _amused,_ very _musical_ drunk," Jehan said triumphantly, "and the old archdeacon who had one foot in the grave came down the stairs to see who was singing those Latin hymns so badly out of key! Of course, I was a little tipsy myself, so I didn't bother to shut Claude up and was even joining in. The archdeacon wanted to know why Claude was up so late and what I was doing there. Then, he saw the _empty_ wine bottle and almost had a stroke right there."

The room was really filled with laughter then.

"He looks from me to Claude and back to me again and yells 'What have you done? That was for the Eucharist tomorrow! Now there's no Blood of Christ!'. How could you do this, Claude? How could you deprive the people of the Blood of Christ? What have you to say for yourself?' And then…"

Jehan had to regain his composure, as his laughter had now hit full-force.

"…Claude says to him, hiccupping and laughing all the while, I add: 'Jehan is now washed in the Blood of Jesus Christ!' and the archdeacon says 'And apparently, so are you! Go to bed immediately!'. Needless to say, I did not get to spend the night at the Cathedral!"

Esmeralda had tears flowing down her cheeks now and was laughing silently. Pierre and Jehan were guffawing so much that I waited until they calmed down to serve the soup. Claude had hidden his face, but he was actually smiling when he lowered his hands. I didn't feel so bad laughing a little now.

"You got me into more trouble than you were worth," Claude mumbled, "and contrary to belief, there _is _a commandment about annoying siblings."

"What was it? Love thy Neighbor?" I asked, passing them their steaming bowls of stew. Claude looked right up at me. As straight-faced as he could manage (though his eyes were twinkling humorously), he replied solemnly, "No, actually. It is 'Thou Shalt Not Kill'."

The room dissolved into more laughter.

"And he has tested me to my absolute limits," Claude sighed, looking over at Jehan.

"But you love me," Jehan said sweetly, putting on an innocent face.

"Yes…but I don't exactly have a choice, do I?" Claude teased.

I was impressed with him; Claude seemed considerably more relaxed.

"He did _very _well on his first day out," Jehan said cheerfully, "he even _met a girl._"

Claude's expression twisted into the one that said _I'm going to kill you if you don't shut up._

"A girl? Wow…that's great!" I exclaimed.

"Jehan!" Claude hissed, giving him the "shut up" gesture. Of course, Jehan being Jehan, ignored it.

"There was a very lovely lady talking to him when I found him," Jehan said mischievously, "if you'd have seen the blush on her cheeks and the look in her eyes!"

Jehan winced. I'm pretty sure that Claude had kicked him under the table. He gave Claude a dirty look.

"Oh, come on! Even _I_ wasn't _that_ lucky!" he protested.

Claude looked as though he wanted the floor to swallow him up whole. Pierre and Esmeralda were, to say the least, amused.

"I wonder if God would let me have just _one_ exception," Claude muttered under his breath, "…just one…I have no idea what I've done to deserve this!"

"Ah, lighten up! It's only in fun," Jehan said, looking as innocent as a young child, "you can't stay angry with me, you know!"

"If I could, you wouldn't be here," Claude reminded him sternly. He was trying to look serious, but his mouth twisted and the laughter exploded out.

It was the first time I could remember seeing him smile at all, let alone laugh. Esmeralda's eyes locked with mine for a second and I knew she was thinking the same thing.

"Who was the young lady?" I asked.

Claude groaned and pretended to bang his head on the table.

"Her name is Marguerite," Pierre chimed in, "I've met her before. Nice girl…a little scatterbrained, but sweet just the same. I've sold a few of my sonnets to her. Beast for a father, though."

"Wonderful," Claude muttered sarcastically.

"You could take him," Pierre joked, "just chop a few more piles of wood and you'll be strong enough. The man's all bark and no bite."

Claude raised an eyebrow.

"Her father can keep her," he informed Pierre, "I have more important things to deal with than some silly girl."

_If her name isn't "Esmeralda", _I thought.

"You say that now," Jehan said slyly, giving Esmeralda a sideways look, "but I'd be careful about what you swear to keep away from. It's usually the case that whatever or _whomever_ comes back to get you…"

"Can we talk about something else now?"

Claude, I supposed, had been a very good sport, but he was tired of being picked on now.

"Yes…I have a job for you later," I told him, "since you can read and write, I'll be needing labels made for these bottles."

"I can read and write, too," Jehan commented.

"Yes, but I think Margot wants other people to be able to _read_ the labels," Claude teased him, "it took me two hours to decipher the last letter you wrote me."

"Who's fault is that? _You_ taught me to write," Jehan retorted.

Esmeralda shook her head, still laughing.

"They really are related after all," she giggled.

"It's going to be interesting having them live together," I whispered, "I won't get anything done!"


	11. Chapter 11

It didn't take us very much time to get the bottles filled and labeled. Claude's neat, slanting letters filled the labels and we stacked them on the shelves together. Quasimodo was playing with his kitten, Margot was dictating a letter, and Claude was writing it for her. It was decided that I would be the one delivering the letter tomorrow since I knew this town better than anyone else—the elderly couple across town needed some balm for their aching bones.

"How long have you been in this line of work?" I asked Margot.

"Oh, I started when my son was young. You know how boys are," she said lovingly, "they fall and scrape themselves up or they catch a chill. I found that I had a knack for growing and preparing herbs. People don't always look upon it very kindly—they seem to think that I'm a witch at times. I suppose I resemble one," she chuckled to herself.

"Can you cast a spell on me to keep the hangovers away?" I asked.

To my surprise, it was Claude that laughed first.

"If she gave me the right headache remedy, you would disappear," he said smugly.

"Oh, sure…pick on me," I answered.

"You started at dinner, telling that dreadful story about us."

"Oh, come on! It was funny! And your lady rather enjoyed it," I reminded him.

"Yes…now she thinks I'm a closet drinker," Claude retorted, "so much for maintaining an image!"

I snorted.

"Pah! You're better off without it! She's beginning to like you, you know! I saw the light in her eyes as she realized that you were human and that you had a sense of humor!"

"One of these days, you are going to be the death of me."

I laughed.

"But I'll give you one Hell of a journey, won't I? It's getting cold in here…"

Claude glanced at the wood box.

"Go get some wood," he ordered.

"You get it."

"You're the one complaining."

"You're the oldest."

"Yes, I am. That means you have to do as I say."

Margot burst into laughter because she knew it was coming.

"Claude, if I did what you said, you would fall over dead of shock!"

He made a face.

"I think you're right. I'll go get it."

Margot dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief.

"Oh…Jehan, we should have found you sooner! You're very entertaining!"

I mock-bowed, sweeping my hat in an exaggerated gesture.

"I am at your service, my lady."

Outside, I could hear Claude chopping more wood.

"I had always wished that my son had survived," she sighed, still smiling, "and I always begged God to send me another. I guess my prayers were answered."

I opened the door for Claude, who staggered under the weight of the pile.

"It's a pity you never saw us as children," I informed her, "that would have been even better."

Claude heaved the wood into the box and brushed the splinters off of his shirt.

"Good Lord, Jehan, are you trying to give her nightmares?"

"No…she would have always been laughing," I replied.

"Trust me, it wasn't as great as he makes it sound," Claude informed Margot.

"That's because you were the oldest."

He let out an exasperated sigh.

"I hope you have a son someday," he muttered, "then you'll see what it's like."

"Bite your tongue!" I yelped playfully.

Claude shook his head.

"However did the two of you get separated?" Margot asked.

"We weren't…much," I answered, "Claude took one path, I took another."

"He travels my path when he has no money," Claude commented.

"And now you are just the same as I am."

A cloud of bitterness colored the attempt at humor gone awry. I was tired of my brother looking down his nose at me.

I wondered if things would ever change. In a few weeks, I had been told he would return to Notre Dame.

He would be Claude Frollo the Great High and Mighty Archdeacon.

And I would once again be the lowly peasant, the failure, the shame he hid away.

I suddenly didn't feel like staying downstairs and got up.

"What did I say?" I heard him ask Margot when I pretended to shut the door to our room.


	12. Chapter 12

Claude's POV:

Margot turned to look at me after Jehan had bolted up the stairs. I expected anger, but her expression was sympathetic instead.

"What did I say?" I asked, genuinely confused. I had the distinct feeling that I just gone too far.

She thought for a moment.

"Jehan wants you to see him as your equal and not just the irresponsible little brother that you were forced to raise," she finally said, "I think he's upset because he thinks that you have a superior attitude towards him. For once, the two of you seemed to be on equal ground in his eyes."

I felt as though a knife had pierced my ribs. I hadn't meant to hurt his feelings. I wondered if Jehan had felt this way each time he'd left the cathedral after I'd scolded him for his various mistakes.

"I had only one sister," Margot told me, "and she and I fought all the time. I told myself that there was always time to make up for it, that we were young and I had all the time in the world. After I got married, I was relieved because I didn't have to be in the house with her anymore. It wasn't until later that I found out what my bossiness would cost all of us. Our mother and father were proud of my ability to cook and always bragged on my perfect loaves of bread. I tried to teach Lucie, but she was hopeless. She just didn't have the eye or the instinct. Since I wasn't there to criticize her any longer, she decided that she would try her hand at my bread recipe. Unfortunately, her inexperience in the kitchen cost her…the house caught fire and she was badly burned. The vowed widows on the corner tried to save her, but the damage was too extensive. I got there as fast as I could and apologized to her. She said she forgave me and died that night, but I have never forgotten the guilt I carried. Sometimes I wondered if I had been less critical and more understanding that things might have been different."

I sipped at my mug of tea even though it had turned cold.

"I'll be back," I sighed, leaving the cup on the table. Stalling wasn't going to help the matter. I ascended the stairs and opened the door to our shared room.

"Jehan? Are you asleep?"

His exasperated sigh told me he wasn't. I sat down on the edge of his bed. Apologies never came easily to me and this one was going to be even harder.

"I'm sorry," I said quickly, "not just for what I said downstairs, but for everything…"

He rolled over to face me. He was angry and I braced myself for the tongue-lashing I knew I deserved.

"I just wish you'd stop treating me like I'm your disobedient son or your problem to solve," he snapped, "I'm not a priest and I never want to be one. I hate how you think you know everything and you try to force me to be something I'm not."

"I only wanted you to have a good life because I love you," I sighed, feeling very much like the parent he accused me of being.

"Really? You scold me every time I come to you for help and you snap at me in public because you love me? This may come as a surprise to you, Claude, but trying to control every aspect of my life does not feel like a gesture of love to me!"

When I said nothing, he continued.

"I know I embarrass you," he said harshly, "they know you raised me. They whisper and say 'how can the great archdeacon of Notre Dame possibly have a brother like that?' Quasimodo and I relate very well and do you know why? Until Esmeralda came along, we are the two biggest failures you've ever had!"

Jehan's arrow had hit its mark.

"What makes you think—" I started to ask, but he cut me off.

"You don't have to say it," Jehan snarled, "we already know just by the way you try and cover us up! Quasimodo knew nothing about the outside world until now because you hid him up in that bell tower his entire life. You couldn't have me locked away, so you never address me in public unless you're yelling at me over something you don't approve of! When was the last time you told Quasimodo that he did something right?"

I shrank back guiltily. Jehan's nose was only a hand's width from my own.

"You're going to go back to that cathedral, pick up where you left off, and that will be that," he said bitterly, "nothing will have changed. You'll be back on top and the rest of us will have to fend for ourselves."

Ordinarily, I would have shouted right back at him or dismissed him entirely. Unfortunately, I had no valid arguments…I would have been grasping at straws.

So I said nothing.

"What? No insisting you're right and the rest of us are full of it?" he asked nastily.

I shook my head.

"That's a first," he spat, rolling back over, "I suppose you'll need time to think up a proper insult."

I quietly left the room. Margot was conspicuously absent; I supposed she had gone to bed. Feeling choked and smothered in this house, I felt the overwhelming urge to escape. I left.

The cold night air felt heavenly as it filled up my chest. Angry tears blurred my vision. I slammed my fist into a nearby tree. I was shaking all over and a frustrated growl noisily escaped my throat.

I was angry because Jehan had been right. I was angry that I'd ever been placed in this situation. I was angry at myself for making so many stupid mistakes. I was angry at Esmeralda showing up and changing my entire life. I was angry at Margot because she always had to be right. I was angry at Quasimodo because he had an innocence that I had lost many years ago.

"Claude?"

Oh, no…

There was only one voice that could hold such gentleness, such pity.

Esmeralda ventured a little bit closer. Her pet goat trotted at her side. I looked around for Pierre, but he was conspicuously absent.

"Is everything all right?" she asked.

Her concern was salt in my wound. I shuddered violently and tried to clear my thoughts. Judging by the look on her face, she was probably thinking I had another fever.

"Where's Pierre?" I asked pointedly. She had no business being on the dark streets by herself. Her goat couldn't be counted on to dissuade people of ill intent.

"Well…" I could hear the hesitation in her voice, "…we had a…disagreement. He left. I was trying to find him."

I felt the air exit my lungs in a noisy whoosh. So…I wasn't the only one who'd said something I shouldn't have.

"What happened?" I asked, feeling more calmly.

Her eyes dropped to the pavement.

"It's…stupid," she lamented.

"You don't have to say if you don't want to," I said quietly.

"He thinks you're trying to take me away from him," she blurted out.

I stared in surprise.

"He's been wary about you since he discovered your feelings for me," she said awkwardly, "and then there was the fever…You'd saved my life and I thought it was only fair to repay the kindness. Since then, we've been arguing quite a bit…if I do one simple thing, he takes it the wrong way. I know that all couples fight, but must we go through it every night?"

More guilt bubbled up beneath the heated fury.

"If anything, it was my fault," I sighed, "I should never have put you in that situation…I never dreamed that one person could pay so much for my mistakes."

"You didn't choose to get sick," she argued, "even if you did defy Margot's orders. You didn't know."

I started to say that I should have known since I had an extensive medical knowledge, but Esmeralda cut me off.

"You can't blame everything on yourself," she said firmly, "and Pierre's always been jealous."

"He feels threatened," I thought out loud, "Phoebus had the looks and the money and I had the power…he had a handful of love poems and the clothes on his back."

She thought that over.

"Yes, but what does that matter? We aren't even legally married. The arrangement's only supposed to last four years…well, now it's three and a half. I told him that I don't desire him as more than a friend or a brother."

My dilemma seemed childish and insignificant compared to hers.

"You seemed upset earlier," she commented, "what happened to you?"

I made a face.

"Jehan and I were teasing each other and I took it too far. I'd hit a nerve of his…I can't blame him for being angry. I tried to apologize to him and he exploded."

"Sometimes people need time to stop being angry," she commented, "maybe he'll be able to talk it out tomorrow."

"I hope so. He seems upset that I return to Notre Dame soon," I lamented, "he says that the rest of you will have to fend for yourselves when I'm there. I didn't quite understand."

"I think he's afraid that you'll see the others as being beneath you," she clarified, "that we won't be able to speak to you frankly anymore and that our friendships will be affected."

It was a legitimate fear. I could see why he'd be so upset…the priests that I had worked with previously would not approve of the company I kept. But then again, I was now in charge of them, so what would that matter?

"I didn't realize until tonight that he felt so strongly," I answered, "I always thought I knew what was best for him and that it was my way or none. I wonder if he started the drinking and gambling and affairs to make me see that he could still do what he wanted."

"He was testing you," Esmeralda commented, "waiting to see if you'd still love him even if he disappointed you."

I must have looked annoyed because she turned her head.

"I'm sorry," she sighed, "I really should learn to stop talking so much."

"No," I reassured her, "you're right. I really wasn't very forgiving of him…I can see why he hates me right now."

"He doesn't hate you. He'll get over it," she commented, "I just wonder if Pierre will."

I didn't know what to tell her. I was a terribly jealous man in my own right and I'd never been able to conquer that. I also had no experience with marriage and felt helpless when it came to advice.

"For both of your sakes, I hope he does," I admitted.

"It got to its worst when he drank too much tonight and told me that if I didn't share his bed that I don't love him," she lamented, "I asked him why he would ever think that and then demanded to know if I'd thought of you that way. Before I could object and tell him how unfair he was being, he stormed out."

I cringed. Normally, I'd have to be present to cause this much discord. This was quickly becoming a terrible nightmare.

"I wanted to tell him that he was never in danger of you harming me, but he didn't believe me."

Then, she realized what she said and clamped a hand over her mouth. I wouldn't have questioned her on that, but her expression made me suspicious.

"What do you mean?" I asked. If I didn't have the capacity to harm her, I wouldn't have gotten her in such a mess in the first place.

Unless…

Esmeralda looked horrified as the realization crossed my face. So…she knew…

"It was wrong of me to say it," she said, sounding on the verge of tears, "I wasn't thinking, but I was so desperate to get him to stop shouting at me…I never told anyone else, I swear on Djali!"

This was shaping up to be one of the worst nights in my history.

"How did you find out?" I asked angrily.

"It was when the fever was at its worst," she said miserably, "you wanted to sleep in the same bed with me because your dreams were frightening you. I pulled away and you said you could never…do anything to me…because you didn't know how. I didn't mean to tell him, it just slipped out!"

I'd had enough. The anger was building again. I couldn't believe I'd accidentally told Esmeralda one of my most intimate secrets and she'd probably blurted it out in front of most of the gypsies. I had begun to trust her as my friend and here she was telling everyone about something very private. I started to walk away, but her hand snared my arm with such force that I almost tripped.

"Claude, please don't go! Until just now, you were the only person who wasn't upset with me! I'm so sorry, I didn't mean it, I swear!"

That seemed to be everyone's favorite expression tonight. I tugged my arm loose and turned my back to her.

"Claude, I know you don't believe this, but I really do care about you," she pleaded.

I turned to look at her.

"Do you?" I asked acidly, "Then think twice about breaking confidence next time."

I left her there. Part of me wanted to go back and comfort her, to dry her tears and tell her it was going to be all right. I could have even held her, maybe. But the anger was too strong. It wasn't even the issue of my virginity—since I was a priest, that went without question. It was the idea that she had shared my ignorance of the subject with everyone. I did not regret my ignorance, for I still asserted that she'd been safe because of it. Nevertheless, I didn't want it spread all over Paris that I didn't know how to have sex. People would talk and this subject would quickly become a means of torture if they had no better rumors to pass on. Perhaps it was my own insecurity making me paranoid, but my pride was in shreds as it was.

None of them were failures. The only failure around here was me.

I found myself walking a familiar road. Notre Dame towered over me, making me feel very small. I looked up at the massive structure and my eyes filled with tears. A wonderful day had turned into an absolutely Hellish night. I wasn't allowed to go in, so I sat down on the steps. My tears came in a torrent. I smothered my gasps in my hands and willed it to stop…I had shed more tears since I'd met Esmeralda than at any other time in my adult life. It was only making me angrier because I felt weak.

I would come back someday for the peace and quiet if not any other…I needed these stone walls to support me. The rigidity of the priesthood was the perfect antidote to all of these emotions plaguing me and threatening to drive me to madness.

At last, exhausted and spent, I returned to Margot's house. As expected, Esmeralda was gone. I prayed to God to help me right all the wrongs I'd done in other people's lives, to be able to atone for my sins against them. Then, I collapsed onto the bed and embraced a deep, dreamless sleep.


	13. Chapter 13

Esmeralda's POV:

Pierre did not return that night. There was evidence that he'd been home the next morning, but I had apparently missed him when I finally slept. The quality of sleep that I got was very poor—I'd had several nightmares.

I tried to find Pierre several times throughout the day, but I had no luck. Finally, I decided to try and mend things with Claude first. At least I knew where to find him…

As I walked down the road towards Margot's house, I was surprised that I even cared so much about Claude's feelings. The two of us had become closer over the last couple of months…I had begun to think of him as my ally.

Margot was the one who let me in. Her expression told me that something had just transpired and that it wasn't good. The house was filled with a tense silence.

"Claude and Jehan…"

That was all that Margot had to say. I nodded to indicate that I already knew about it. Quasimodo was down here in the kitchen kneading some bread dough. His favorite kitten was going to be old enough to wean soon. Jehan was in the kitchen, so I guessed that Claude was outside.

"If you're looking for my Holier-than-thou brother, he's outside chopping wood," Jehan said irritably, "I wouldn't go out there if I were you…he's in one Hell of a mood this morning."

I nodded and braced myself to face him.

"Brave girl," Jehan commented.

I began to notice that Claude usually ended up chopping wood when he was angry…it was becoming a favorite habit of his. He swung with so much force that he hacked a rather large log in half with one swing. I winced…I must have done more damage than I thought. He glanced up for a fraction of a second, then resumed his task. I busied myself with getting some water from the well. For a minute, I wondered if he would ever speak to me at all.

"What do you want?" he finally asked.

I winced. I had heard Claude in pain, sad, hysterical, lustful, and prideful, but I couldn't ever remember hearing him so angry. I was at a loss.

"I just wanted to say I'm sorry for last night," I sighed eventually, even though I'd already apologized.

He stared hard into my eyes for a minute. It hadn't occurred to me until just now that his trust in me had been as fragile as my trust in him and I'd shattered it. Then, he gathered up the wood and carried it into the house. Carrying the pail of water, I followed him.

Margot said nothing.

He placed the wood into the wood box (which I now noticed was on the verge of overflowing) and I put my bucket of water down. I had the distinct feeling that Claude wanted me to leave, but I couldn't seem to do it. It pained me that he was so upset with me.

"Oh, for God's sake! Just forgive her!" Jehan scolded.

Claude glanced over.

"Jehan," he said warningly. His tone was dangerously quiet.

"Margot? Did you need more herbs?" I asked, looking for any excuse that I could to go outside and take him with me.

"Get a little of all of them," she said, giving me a basket. I gave her a grateful smile and took it. I glanced sideways and hoped that Claude would follow me.

He did, but it took him a few minutes. When he finally emerged from the house, he seemed to only be getting more annoyed. He crossed his arms over his chest. The silence was smothering.

"I'm sorry," I sighed, "I wish I could take it back. If I could un-say it, I would. I think we should stick together if we can…Margot, Pierre, you, Quasimodo, and now Jehan are all I have. I haven't the slightest idea if my mother is still alive…"

I'm not sure what made me do it, but I pulled the small satiny pink baby slipper out of my bodice and held it up. Maybe I felt I owed him something deeply personal after I'd let his secret slip.

"An old woman that helped to raise me told me that if I ever found the other one, I'd have found my mother."

Claude's eyes narrowed in concentration as he looked at it. He walked over to me and took it.

"I've seen the other one," he commented.

My stomach twisted.

"You have?"

"Yes," he said quietly, "I'd never have thought…"

His green-blue eyes got a faraway look as though recalling a distant memory of another place or another time.

"Yes…that was it," he said quietly, "I know her."

My heart was thundering.

"Where is she?" My voice was barely a whisper.

"Wait a moment," he said sternly, "I'll take you to her, but you have to do something for me in return. Do we have a deal?"

I brushed the earth off of my hands. Pierre wasn't around to hear me make the deal…I could easily get myself in trouble.

"What do you want me to do?" I asked, trying to keep the suspicion and nervousness out of my voice. Maybe I wouldn't have panicked if I hadn't upset him so much the previous night.

"First, don't ever let anything else that happened during my illness pass your lips," he said firmly, "to anyone…that includes me unless I specifically ask."

"And?" I asked, knowing he wouldn't stop there.

I almost saw a trace of a smile.

"I want you to come and visit me when I return to Notre Dame," he said, "at least one time a week."

It was a much fairer deal than I had guessed. Maybe he really had changed…

"All right," I assented without any hesitance or reluctance.

"I'll tell you this evening," he promised, "but I have to check first…I don't want to promise anything and get your hopes up before I find out for myself. If my memory serves me well, your mother is much closer than you realize."

Just having hope was wonderful.

"Thank you," I breathed. Out of impulse, I kissed him on the cheek. He flushed awkwardly and his gaze averted to the ground. We went back into the house and I gave Margot the basket of herbs.

We were getting the table ready for breakfast when there was a knock. I was the one to answer it.

"Pierre!"

I pounced on him, hugging him fiercely. He was slow to react, which made me wonder what was going on.

"I knew I'd find you here," he said quietly.

"I was looking for you," I admitted.

"Were you?" he asked suspiciously.

I heard footsteps behind me.

"Yes, she was," Claude's voice said, "she's been all over Paris trying to find you. Margot asked her to stay for breakfast in hopes that you would know to come here."

I turned and sent Claude a grateful look. The slightest ghost of a smile was playing on his lips.

"Very clever, Margot…" Pierre sighed, "you know me too well. I'm afraid I've indulged a little too much."

His eyes were bloodshot and he had one hand touching his head tenderly. Margot shook her head and retrieved a bottle of her special remedy from the shelf.

"Go upstairs and lie down. It will be a while yet," she assured him. I followed him up the stairs.

"I'm sorry I ever doubted you," he sighed, "I've made an utter fool of myself. My jealousy got the better of me…"

He swallowed the contents of the small bottle in one gulp.

"Claude says he might know where my mother is," I informed him, not wanting him to have another reason to mistrust me.

"How so?"

"I showed him the shoe," I said, showing it to him.

"And?"

"He wants to be sure he's got the right person before we meet. He said he would tell me this evening," I answered.

"What did he want in return?"

I knew Pierre was going to ask that question, so I didn't get offended.

"I promised him I wouldn't mention anything else that was said during his illness and I promised to visit him once a week."

"Oh."

It was all I got from Pierre. His eyes were getting heavy and he was having trouble staying awake.

"You can come if you want," I told him. Claude hadn't instructed that these visits had to be made alone.

"All right," he yawned.

I went downstairs after Pierre had fallen asleep and we finished preparing breakfast.


	14. Chapter 14

Paquette's POV

The darkness of my cell was all that I had known for several years. I had been buried alive, but only my body seemed alive. The person I had been seemed so far away that I was no longer acquainted with her. Sister Gudule, the living corpse. That was my identity.

My only connection to the outside was a man my age by the name of Claude Frollo. He hadn't come to see me for several weeks and I knew why. His reputation had been smeared. Attempted murder…somehow it didn't surprise me. He'd always been a particularly passionate man and his temper had gotten him in trouble several times in his youth. The woman he'd stabbed the captain over must have been something special to provoke him in such a way…

I wish someone would have done something like that for me.

My life consisted of prayer, of lashings, of enough food to keep me alive, and of darkness. I had no mirror, but I did not desire one. I knew I looked as dead as I felt. My hands, once slender and smooth, were skeletal like tree branches. My bones stuck out beneath pale, almost translucent skin. My hair had turned gray from the harsh treatment. I had once looked forward to Claude's visits, for he treated me like a person and spoke to me as one. The others…well, they didn't feel the need to entertain me.

"Sister?"

My heart started to pound. He was back! I rushed to the small opening that served as a window. I didn't have much of a view, but it was enough.

"Brother Claude! Where in God's name have you been?" I asked.

"It's a long story. I came to ask you if you still had that little pink shoe you'd shown me once."

"Of course," I said, rushing to retrieve it, "I never let it out of my sight…not that it happens much."

Bless Claude…he never grew tired of hearing about my daughter. He was the only other living soul that knew of her disappearance and all the years I'd spent grieving for her.

"It so happens that I've found the other one," he said, holding his up for comparison. Even in the scant light, I could see that it was a match. Feeling dizzy, I grasped the wall for support.

"Where did you get it?" I asked.

"I think I've found your daughter."

He began to tell me of the gypsy girl that had caused all the commotion in the world outside my cell…a world that I could only imagine.

"Yes, but what does she have to do with-?" I started to ask impatiently.

"She is your Agnes," he answered, cutting my question off.

"WHAT?"

"Esmeralda is Agnes."

"You're sure?" I asked, hoping he wasn't cruel enough to play a trick on me.

"I'm sure," Claude insisted, "I remember very clearly what you looked like when they sealed you inside. The resemblance is unmistakable. I didn't put the pieces together until just recently."

A noise akin to a sob escaped my constricting throat. Feelings I'd forgotten I could feel were conflicting violently with each other. Agnes was alive…

"I want you to come and see for yourself," he told me.

"But I can't," I lamented, "I'm sealed in…nothing short of an explosion would get me out."

"That's what they want you to think. Until now, you've never had a reason to get out."

His voice took on a slyness that was foreign to me.

"But how do I get out?" I asked impatiently.

"Beneath your bed is a trap door that leads to a tunnel. If you can move the bed out of the way and lift the door, the tunnel will bring you straight outside."

I was puzzled.

"But why would they put a tunnel?"

Claude didn't answer. As I struggled to move the meager bed out of the way, I realized why. Sooner or later, I would die and they would need to retrieve my remains. Shuddering, I gathered what was left of my strength and gave one last heave. The bed scraped against the stone floor and was out of the way enough to get the door open. I had to work at pulling it up. By the time it gave way, I was sweating and exhausted. The damp air from the tunnel wafted into the cell. Claude said nothing, but I knew he was there.

I descended into the tunnel. I knew it was only a short distance, but I felt like the smothering darkness lasted for hours. A square of blindingly bright light shone through the darkness and I struggled up the ladder towards it. His hands took mine and hauled me out of the darkness.

I threw up a hand to shield my face. The whole world was blindingly bright after years in the dark. I was shaking because the breeze felt unfamiliar on my skin.

"Come on," he said gently, "we need to leave before they realize something is amiss."

I staggered with him. If he hadn't been supporting me, I'd have collapsed in the street. I only vaguely realized that he wore a dark cloak. No one seemed to give us a second look—he was only a nice man helping an old woman across the road. My muscles were thin and atrophied from lack of exercise and they ached painfully after only a few steps. It was only until we had reached the house that my eyes began to adjust. The sun was beginning to dip lower in the sky—it would be setting soon.

An older woman was stirring something over a fire. A misshapen young man was dragging a string across the floor for a litter of kittens to chase. A young man with hair the color of fire was scribbling something on a bit of parchment. They all glanced up when they heard the door open. All of their eyes settled on me.

"We have a guest," I heard Claude's voice announce. He lowered the hood of his cloak. It was the first time I'd been able to see him clearly in years. His turquoise eyes locked on mine.

"How would you like them to address you?" he whispered.

For a moment, I did not know what to say. I had been called "Sister Gudule" for so long that I'd nearly forgotten my former name.

"P-Paquette," I stammered awkwardly, "my name is Paquette."

It was the old woman who spoke first.

"Welcome to my home, Paquette. Why don't you come and sit by the fire?"

Claude helped me to the chair and I sat down. The warmth of the fire was the most welcome thing in the world after years of cold and damp.

"I'm Margot and this is Jehan and Quasimodo."

I vaguely remembered Claude talking about them on the way here. The misshapen youth named Quasimodo was someone I'd been hearing about for quite a while—Claude had talked about him frequently.

"We'll have you all settled in momentarily," Margot told me, "and Esmeralda should be back at sundown."

Claude and Jehan brought water in for a bath before hastily exiting the kitchen.

"You look like you've had a very hard life," Margot commented, scrubbing my hair with more vigor than was necessary, "I do wish that people of the cloth weren't so hard on themselves."

I hissed as the water touched the wounds on my back. Margot sliced off several inches of my hair with a pair of thick shears. I watched in dismay as she gathered it up to dispose of.

"It will grow back and be beautiful," she assured me, "but you have lice, dear, and they love long hair."

She rubbed some foul-smelling stuff into what was left of it to kill them. Then, she dried me off and bandaged up my wounds. Clucking to herself, she muttered something about how everyone coming to visit seemed to have back wounds as of late. The secondhand dress I was given was a few inches too short, but it was clean. She cast my nun's habit into the fire along with the hair shirt she'd separated from my body with some difficulty.

I watched it burn with a sick feeling. If things did not work out, what would become of me?

Margot lay a spidery hand on my shoulder.

"Don't fret, dear. Your daughter is a lovely young woman and she has searched for you every bit as much as you have searched for her."

There was a knock on the closed kitchen door.

"You may enter," Margot called.

Claude poked his head in.

"It is time to meet your daughter," he said quietly.

Margot nudged me forward. Trembling, I accepted Claude's extended hand. He gave it a reassuring squeeze as I stepped through the door.


	15. Chapter 15

A/N: Sorry for the slowness of updates; life has really thrown me some curveballs these last several months. I will eventually finish all these fictions I started during the summer, it just may take a while.

Claude's POV:

I cannot begin to explain the feeling that takes place when you see two similar sets of eyes locking onto each other when they've never met before. When I was a younger man, I had seen it a few times. Families and loved ones who had been separated often met at the church to reunite with one another. I suppose the years of rules and regulations have made me insensitive to such a small miracle in itself.

Paquette was frail—I knew she had once been beautiful. She was like a lovely rose that had withered from lack of light and care. Some of that long-lost beauty graced her features when she smiled and I saw the woman under the years of torturous living. In her younger days, she and Esmeralda could have passed for twins.

"Mother."

That one word broke the silence, whispered from Esmeralda's full, rosy lips. The two women embraced so tightly that it was debatable whether we could ever pry them apart—but why would we want to? This was one of the few events in my recent years that I actually felt as though I'd done something right. In the lives of priests, there are often spells that we suffer from when we question whether we're really helping people the way we should.

Pierre looked at me and I swear to God the man actually smiled. It was a real smile—there was no sneer, no "stay away from my wife" warning. Margot was headed for the kitchen—no doubt to cook something. The old woman seemed to always be doing something back there. Deciding to leave Paquette and Esmeralda to get acquainted, I followed her in there.

"That was by far better than any gift I gave a woman," Jehan remarked, "the best I could do was flowers and second-hand sonnets!"

"I didn't do it for the reasons you may think," I said sternly, "I did it because it was the right thing to do. I did it because they have both suffered at my hands even in ways that I was not aware of."

Margot was preparing to knead out some bread dough, but her old bones didn't appear quite up to it. Quite accustomed to kitchen chores by now, I rolled up my sleeves and volunteered to take over. Much to everyone's surprise, I was becoming quite the cook.

"You love her," Margot said quietly.

I said nothing. I thought it was quite obvious by now; I had never been very good at hiding it. Seeing the look on my face, she smiled warmly.

"No…this time, you really do," she told me, "you're thinking of her more than yourself. You're giving her what she wants rather than demanding of her. I don't know what your intentions are when your exile is over, but you've just befriended her for life."

I nodded.

I might never hold her. I might never kiss her or hear her sigh at my touch. I might never wake up next to her in the morning. I might never father her children. But I was content to breathe her air for a second when she hugged me. I was content with her smile and the lack of uneasiness in her eyes. I was content with her not fearing me or being disgusted by me. If I could have a few moments of her time now and then, a small place in her heart, then I could be satisfied with it.

As we continued to prepare the evening meal, a terrifying thought occurred to me. Yes, I had missed Notre Dame. I had missed certain aspects of my old life, some of the privileges of having the status that I had. I had missed having a quiet place to pray when I thought I needed to escape. As I remembered the dimly lit stone corridors and the solemn paintings of Jesus and Mary, I also remembered how cold and damp they were. I remembered the immense guilt over having normal reactions to things (such as getting angry when someone didn't do their share of the work). I remembered feeling guilty for so much as looking at a woman and thinking she was beautiful whether my reaction was physical or purely aesthetic. I remember the claustrophobia of feeling as though the whole world was watching and waiting for me to make a mistake.

I wasn't sure that I wanted to go back.

I would be an outcast. I would have nowhere to go and no purpose until I could find a job. Perhaps someone here in town needed someone who could read and write…I would have to labor each day and know that I had forsaken my church.

I wondered if choosing a different life was the same as betraying God.

I wiped the flour off of my hands and put the loaves of bread into the oven. I walked past Jehan and Margot and whispered "I'll be back". I slipped out of the warm kitchen as quietly as I could.

The cool night air soothed my heating face and took some of the feverishness from my mind. Looking up at the sliver of moon, I couldn't help but smile. It reminded me of something Quasimodo had said.

I nearly jumped out of my skin when I saw him.

"I didn't realize you were out here," I told him.

"I came outside to see the moon," Quasimodo said in his slow, deep voice. He smiled in that odd way that he did and pointed.

"Look, Master, God is smiling at us!"

I couldn't help but laugh. He had told me that once when he was very young, shortly after I had taught him to speak. I felt guilty for chastising him about it now…

"So He is," I agreed.

The moon was a thin white crescent and the part that was visible was the bottom part. It looked very much like a smile, hence Quasimodo's remark. I rested my chin on my hand. Sometimes I felt bad for all the times I'd scolded him and punished him—I haven't been very much of a father.

Then, as he usually did, he spoke the one thing that had been haunting me:

"Master, will we ever go back to Notre Dame?"

He said that as the bells tolled for the evening service. I knew he was wondering if they had already replaced him.

"Maybe," I said truthfully, "but…not to stay."

He nodded. I wasn't sure what reaction I expected to get, but it wasn't that one.

"You weren't happy there. I never saw you smile until you came here. Your cheeks are pink and you aren't so thin…it has been good for you."

It was unsettling. He had been watching me that closely…he was not the fool that everyone thought he was.

"How did you know I was unhappy?"

I couldn't help but ask that question. I had a strong feeling I wouldn't like the answer I got, but I had to say it.

"You always looked sad or angry. I was worried about you. When I saw dead people at the funerals, you looked just like them only you are still alive."

It was a strange answer, but I understood.

"Yes…I suppose I was feeling rather dead at the time."

We sat together in silence for a few more moments.

"Master…do you think they will let me ring the bells one last time? So I can say goodbye to all of them?"

"I'm sure they will," I told him. He smiled and went inside to play with his kitten.

I stayed out there and bowed my head.

_Father, I've come to this crossroad…I don't know what to do. Whatever happens, my intention isn't to turn my back on you. I will go back if you want me to, but I will also embrace a new life however hard it is if you want. Please tell me what it is that I'm supposed to do…my punishment will be over soon. I'm afraid…I've never had to make such a difficult decision before…_

When I opened my eyes, Margot was standing there.

"Time to eat," she told me. The sounds of laughter and merriment spilled out of the kitchen along with the good smells. I followed them in.


End file.
